SNAKE-BITE 

AMD  OTHER  STORIES 


ROBERT  HICHENS 


\ 


SNAKE-BITE 
ROBERT  HICHENS 


SNAKE-BITE 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 

BY 
ROBERT   HICHENS 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  GREEN  CARNATION,"  "THE  GARDEN 
OF  ALLAH,"  "BELLA  DONNA,"  "THE  CALL 

OF  THE   BLOOD,"   ETC. 


NEWXajTYORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  H.  Dorcm  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PK 


(,-otf 

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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ONE:      SNAKE-BITE * ' .       .        9 

Two:      THE  LOST  FAITH .       80 

THREE:  THE  HINDU" 217 

FOUR:    THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES 279 

FIVE:      THE  NOMAD'.       .     '. 309 

Six:i       THE  Two  FEARS   .  ~  .      .  .1  •      •      •      -33* 


SNAKE-BITE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

ONE:  SNAKE-BITE 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  ADVENTURE 

IN  the  market  place  of  Beni  Mora  rumour  was  busy 
with  the  name  of  the  American,  Horace  Pierpont,  who 
had  already  been  staying  for  six  weeks  at  the  Hotel  Ex 
celsior.  Mr.  Pierpont  was  unmarried,  enormously  rich, 
and  neither  young  nor  old.  He  looked  a  man  of  about 
forty,  was  lean,  strong,  tall,  and  very  striking  in  appear 
ance.  Some  people  thought  him  remarkably  handsome; 
others  considered  him  almost  ugly.  But  there  was  no 
one  who  overlooked  him,  who  forgot  to  see  him  when  he 
was  present. 

His  face  was  long,  clean-shaven,  with  powerful  fea 
tures.  The  nose  was  hooked  and  arbitrary,  the  chin 
prominent  and  determined,  the  mouth  very  mobile  and 
well-shaped,  neither  large  nor  small.  The  eyes  were  nar 
row,  steady  and  fearless,  in  colour  grey;  often  they 
seemed  to  be  full  of  a  delicate  and  almost  lazy  irony  under 
the  thin  sweep  of  mouse-coloured  brows.  Pierpont's 
hands  and  feet  were  large  and  strong.  He  was  a  bony 
man  with  a  great  frame.  He  looked  like  a  careless  aris 
tocrat,  who  had  seen  the  world  and  men,  who  had  sat  at 
many  feasts  and  known  many  experiences,  and  who  was 
gifted  with  a  keen,  though  never  boisterous,  sense  of 
humour,  and  with  an  unfailing  self-possession. 

9 


10  SNAKE-BITE 

Pierpont's  hugeness  half  frightened,  half  disgusted 
some  people.  Others  were  impressed  and  attracted  by 
it.  These  called  him  "a  glorious-looking  man."  The 
Arabs  of  Beni  Mora  admired  him,  and  thought  him  one 
of  the  most  kingly  travellers  who  had  ever  penetrated  to 
their  oasis.  They  respected  him,  too,  because  he  had  an 
immense  fortune. 

This  fortune  had  not  been  gained  for  himself  by  Pier- 
pont.  He  was  no  hustling  captain  of  industry,  and  he 
knew  very  little  of  Wall  Street.  His  father,  now  dead, 
Carrington  Pierpont,  had  bequeathed  to  him  his  millions, 
and  he  had  never  worked  hard  for  a  living.  For  a  few 
years  he  had  been  in  the  diplomatic  service,  and  had 
lived  in  Paris,  London,  Rome,  and  Madrid.  Then  he  had 
retired  and  had  travelled  widely.  He  had  a  taste  for 
ornithology,  was  an  intellectual  man,  an  unwearied 
student  of  his  kind,  and  a  good,  though  not  untiring, 
sportsman. 

Certainly  he  enjoyed  life.  By  nature  he  was,  or  be 
lieved  himself  to  be,  exceptionally  independent.  He  liked 
travelling  alone,  and  had  seldom,  if  ever,  felt  the  need 
of  a  "circle"  or  of  a  "home." 

This  was  his  second  visit  to  Beni  Mora. 

During  his  first  visit,  a  couple  of  years  ago,  he  had 
lounged  in  the  sun,  had  read  books  in  the  Count's  garden, 
had  ridden  on  horseback  to  the  various  oases  of  the 
Zibans,  and  had  studied  Arabic  in  a  mild  way  with  AH 
ben  Hilmi,  who  read  aloud  in  one  of  the  cafes  every 
evening  to  a  serious  crowd  of  dark-eyed  listeners  squat 
ting  pell-mell  upon  the  floor. 

But  this  time  it  seemed  he  had  a  very  special  purpose 
in  visiting  Beni  Mora,  and  it  was  this  supposed  purpose 
of  his  which  was  now  being  discussed  throughout  the 
village  wherever  the  Arabs  congregated  together.  In 
Beni  Mora,  now  attached  to  the  Bureau  Arabe,  there 
was  an  Arab  called  Saad  ben  Youssef.  He  was 
un  homme  serieux,  reputed  extraordinarily  honest  and 
faithful,  a  man  of  his  word,  and  diligent  in  any  task  to 


SNAKE-BITE  11 

which  he  put  his  hand.  And  he  had  given  his  proofs  sev 
eral  years  ago  in  a  very  great  undertaking. 

A  small  party  of  Americans,  four  in  number,  had  come 
out  to  Algeria  to  undertake  a  tremendous  pilgrimage. 
They  were  resolved  to  travel  by  caravan  from  Beni  Mora 
to  Tombouctou.  Well,  they  had  carried  out  their  project, 
and  Saad  ben  Youssef  had  been  in  charge  of  the  cara 
van.  He  alone  of  the  Arabs  in  Beni  Mora  had  travelled 
the  whole  distance.  For  three  times  on  the  way  the  cara 
van  had  been  changed,  and  new  men  and  fresh  animals 
had  been  requisitioned.  So  Saad  ben  Youssef  was  noted 
in  Beni  Mora  as  a  man  who  had  seen  great  wonders,  who 
had  traversed  the  whole  region  of  the  Touaregs,  and 
who  had  received  a  large  sum  of  money  from  the  Roumis, 
whom  he  had  efficiently  aided  in  the  carrying  out  of  a 
remarkable  enterprise.  In  the  bazaars  many  and  many 
a  time  had  he  related  the  marvels  of  that  prodigious 
journey,  told  of  the  land  of  the  ostrches,  of  the  wild 
beasts  which  abound  near  Tombouctou,  and  of  moonlit 
evenings  about  the  Touaregs  when  the  unveiled  women4 
of  that  strange  and  almost  legendary  tribe  assembled 
about  the  tents  to  make  sweet  music  for  the  travellers, 
while  the  men,  shrouded  in  their  veils,  remained  at  a 
little  distance,  watchful,  enigmatic,  their  weapons  irt 
their  hands. 

Of  late  Horace  Pierpont  had  been  seen  continually 
in  the  company  of  Saad  ben  Youssef.  The  owner  of  the 
Excelsior  Hotel,  a  French  doctor,  had  sent  one  day  to 
the  Bureau  Arabe  asking  the  Arab  to  come  that  evening 
to  the  hotel  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  millionaire. 
Saad  had  obeyed  the  summons,  and,  since  then,  he  had 
been  with  Mr.  Pierpont  every  evening  after  his  work  at 
the  Bureau  Arabe  was  finished.  They  had  strolled  to 
gether,  had  sat  in  the  garden  of  the  Gazelles  together,  had 
taken  coffee  and  played  dominoes  together  in  the  street 
of  the  dancers.  What  did  it  all  mean?  Saad  as  yet  had 
said  nothing,  but  every  Arab  in  Beni  Mora  had  made 
up  his  mind  on  the  matter.  The  American  millionaire 


12  SNAKE-BITE 

was  going  to  make  the  journey  from  Beni  Mora  to  Tom- 
bouctou,  and  Saad  ben  Youssef  was  once  more  in  luck. 
Again  would  he  see  the  marvels  of  that  prodigious  jour 
ney.  Again  would  gold  pour  through  his  fingers,  or  stay 
deliciously  in  his  big  brown  palms.  All  the  greedy  and 
the  adventurous  had  clustered  about  Saad  with  eager 
smiles  and  parasitic  gestures.  But  hitherto  Saad  ben 
Youssef  had  been  mum.  He  knew  how  to  keep  his 
counsel  and  was  a  master  of  long  unsmiling  silences. 

It  was  a  hot  and  cloudless  day,  and  Fay  Mortimer  had 
gone  out  with  AH,  the  small  boy,  half  Arab,  half  negro, 
who  had  become  her  devoted  attendant,  to  sit  under  a 
group  of  three  palm  trees  by  a  rivulet  of  water  at  the 
edge  of  the  oasis.  She  had  with  her  in  a  hanging  bag  a 
bit  of  embroidery,  a  book,  and  two  packs  of  cards.  Some 
times,  especially  when  her  mind  was  disquieted,  she 
soothed  herself — or  strove  to  believe  that  she  soothed 
herself — with  a  game  of  "patience."  Her  husband, 
young  Doctor  Mortimer,  had  gone  out  with  Dr. 
Bucheron,  their  host  of  the  Hotel  Excelsior,  to  visit  in 
consultation  a  French  officer  of  Spahis  at  the  barracks, 
who  was  dangerously  ill  with  a  fever  caught  in  the  ex 
treme  South  of  Algeria,  whither  he  had  recently  been 
on  some  mission.  All  the  morning  was  Fay's  to  do  what 
she  liked  with.  But  this  was  no  completely  novel  ex 
perience.  For  the  Mortimers  had  already  been  in  Beni 
Mora  for  nearly  two  months. 

Nevertheless,  Fay  had  not  yet  become  thoroughly  ac 
customed  to  the  startingly  new  life  into  which  she  and  her 
husband  had  recently  been  thrust.  That  was  the  word 
she  used  in  speaking  to  nerself  of  this  desert  life.  They 
had  by  marvellous  circumstances  been  "thrust"  into  it, 
she  and  Alan. 

Three  months  ago  they  had  been  living  in  Margate, 
and  she  had  never  travelled  farther  than  Paris  and  Zer- 
matt.  She  had  been  partly  educated  in  Paris,  and  had 
been  to  Zermatt  for  her  honeymoon.  That  had  been 


SNAKE-BITE  13 

when  she  was  only  nineteen.  Now  she  was  nearly  twenty- 
two. 

She  hadn't  at  all  revelled  in  the  life  at  Margate.  In 
fact,  she  had  disliked  part  of  it  very  much  indeed,  though 
she  had  honestly  made  the  best  of  things  for  Alan's 
sake.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  he  wasn't  rich  enough 
to  put  a  plate  with  his  name  on  a  door  in  Harley  Street, 
or  Queen  Anne  Street  in  London,  and  to  sit  down  and 
to  wait  for  patients.  Fay's  father  had  stuck  to  his  word. 
He  had  told  her  that  if  she  married  in  a  hurry  a  penni 
less  young  doctor  he  would  not  give  her  any  allowance. 
Swept  on  the  waves  of  tempestuous  emotion  she  had  done 
just  what  he  had  wished  her  not  to  do.  Sir  Henry 
Kennion  was  very  well  off,  but,  unfortunately,  he  practi 
cally  always  meant  what  he  said.  So  she,  Fay,  had  had 
to  put  up  with  Margate,  in  which  town  of  fine  airs  and 
graceless  trippers  her  husband  had  picked  up  a  practice 
cheap. 

A  cheap  practice  in  Margate,  and  now  here  she  was  in 
Beni  Mora! 

Alan  had  caught  a  severe  chill  one  bitter  night  when 
he  had  been  called  out  to  visit  a  patient.  Bad  symptoms 
had  declared  themselves.  A  winter  abroad  had  been 
urgently  advised.  They  had  thought  about  a  locum 
tenens  in  Margate  and  Davos  for  themselves.  And  then, 
out  of  the  blue,  the  Beni  Mora  temptation  had  come  to 
them.  Quite  by  chance — if  there  be  such  a  thing  as 
chance — Alan  had  been  called  to  the  Cliftonville  Hotel 
to  see  Monsieur  Maurice  Darbley,  who  had  an  interest  in 
one  of  the  great  London  hotels  and  who  "ran"  the  Im 
perial  Hotel  at  Beni  Mora  during  the  winter  season. 
They  had  become  good  friends,  and  Monsieur  Darbley, 
hearing  of  the  young  doctor's  misfortune,  had  offered  to 
lodge  him  and  his  wife  rent  free,  and  to  give  them  their 
pension  at  the  Imperial  during  the  winter,  on  condition 
that  he  was  allowed  to  advertise  "a  resident  English 
doctor"  as  attached  to  his  hotel  for  the  season.  Alan 
Mortimer  had  jumped  at  the  opportunity.  So  now  Fay 


14  SNAKE-BITE 

was  sitting  under  the  three  palm  trees  at  the  edge  of 
the  oasis.  In  a  couple  of  weeks  the  big  hotel  would  be 
opened.  Meanwhile  she  and  Alan  were  at  the  small 
and  quiet  Excelsior  having  a  holiday.  Certainly  just 
now  Alan  was  away  at  a  consultation.  But  that  was  a 
rare  event  out  here.  \ 

When  she  had  quarrelled  with  her  father  about  Alan 
he  had  said  something  to  her  which  she  had  not  been 
able  to  forget.  He  had  said,  "Fay,  you  don't  know  your 
own  mind  yet,  and  you  don't  understand  your  own  heart. 
You  are  a  bit  of  a  volcano.  You  think  young  Mortimer; 
is  the  only  man  in  the  world  for  you.  That's  great 
nonsense.  You've  been  in  love  before,  and,  if  I  know 
anything  of  you,  you'll  be  in  love  again.  If  you  were 
thirty  instead  of  only  nineteen,  I  might  consent.  For 
life  isn't  merely  a  question  of  money  or  of  the  position 
one  holds  in  the  world.  But  you  are  betrayed  by  a 
surface  emotion,  and  you  think  that  your  deeps  are 
calling.  Wait!" 

And,  of  course,  being  a  bit  of  a  volcano,  she  hadn't 
waited. 

She  recalled  those  words  of  her  father  now  as  she 
looked  out  over  the  sunlit  waste  and  listened  to  the  song 
of  the  water  behind  her.  Had  he  been  right  ?  , 

She  had  certainly  been  what  is  called  "in  love"  more 
than  once  before  she  had  met  Alan,  in  love  sufficiently 
to  feel  desperate,  to  lie  awake  in  the  night,  to  weep  and 
to  long.  And — since  she  had  met  Alan  ?  Why  did  such 
an  abominable  question  come  to  her  ?  It  had  only  come 
to  her  quite  lately,  never  at  Margate  in  spite  of  the  cold 
winds,  the  asphalt  promenade,  their  very  banal  house  in 
Cliftonville,  and  the  extraordinary  trippers,  who  bur 
rowed  into  the  sand  even  when  they  were  dresssed  in 
black  cotton  velvet  and  bugles,  and  who  lay  on  their 
backs  before  the  whole  world  presenting  their  greasy  and 
shining  faces,  open-mouthed,  to  the  astonished  heavens. 

Little  AH  was  squatting  at  a  short  distance  from  her 
in  the  eye  of  the  sun,  staring  under  his  tarbush,  with  his 


SNAKE-BITE  15 

naked  feet  sticking  out  on  either  side  of  him,  and  his 
almost  black  hands,  with  much  lighter-coloured  palms, 
resting  on  the  warm  earth.  For  a  moment  she  envied 
him.  Then  she  opened  her  bag  and  took  out  the  cards. 
A  "patience"  might  possibly  soothe  her. 

Slowly  she  began  to  lay  out  the  cards  in  lines  on  the 
hard  ground,  bending  her  lovely  little  head  and  pucker 
ing  her  white  forehead.  Three  knaves  in  a  row  and  then 
seven  spades  in  succession.  How  oddly  the  cards  were 
coming  out! 

Little  Ali  cleared  his  throat  noisily,  and  then  did  some 
thing  which  Fay  particularly  disliked.  She  looked  up 
from  her  game,  and  was  just  going  to  rebuke  him  gently, 
when  something  made  her  forget  all  about  Ali  and  his 
unfortunate  lapse. 

At  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  from  her  she  saw  two 
figures  moving  slowly  over  the  brown  bareness  which 
edged  the  stones  of  the  dry  river  bed,  dividing  it  from 
the  first  palm  trees  of  the  oasis.  One  was  a  huge,  gaunt 
man  clad  in  white  drill  and  wearing  a  Panama  hat,  the 
other  an  almost  equally  tall  Arab  in  turban  and  burnous. 
Thin  smoke  wreaths  curled  about  them.  So  still  was 
the  atmosphere  and  so  clear  that  Fay  could  see,  even 
from  that  distance,  the  delicate  spirals  against  the  glitter. 
She  flushed  slightly  as  she  recognised  Horace  Pierpont. 
The  other  she  did  not  recognise,  but  Ali  was  quick  to 
inform  her. 

" L' Americain  avec  Saad"  he  remarked,  in  his  thick 
childish  voice. 

"Saad  ben  Youssef  ?"  inquired  Fay. 

Ali  nodded  his  head,  and  the  tassel  on  his  tarbush 
sprang  to  and  fro.  Again  he  cleared  his  throat. 

"Ali!"  cried  Fay  imperatively,  holding  up  her  right 
hand  and  fixing  her  large  golden  brown  eyes  on  him. 
Ali  twisted  his  broad  negroid  nose,  and  with  difficulty 
refrained.  But  though  he  refrained  he  was  moved  to 
a  demonstration  of  some  sort,  and  unexpectedly  he 
uttered  a  loud  cry,  which  startled  Fay  and  caused  the 


16  SNAKE-BITE 

two  figures  at  the  edge  of  the  desert  to  pause  ar-d  turn 
round. 

"You — i — you!"  yelled  AH  again,  pleased  with  the 
success  of  his  effort. 

"Ali,  be  quiet !"  exclaimed  Fay,  almost  angrily.  "How 
dare  you  make  such  a  noise?" 

"Via,  ton  ami  qui  vient!"  returned  Ali,  smiling. 

The  huge  figure  in  white  drill,  with  a  loose-jointed 
nonchalant  gait,  was  advancing  towards  them  accom 
panied  by  the  Arab. 

Fay  reddened  again. 

"Ali,  I'm  very  angry  with  you,"  she  said.  "If  you 
can't  behave  yourself  I  shall  have  to  get  another  little 
servant." 

"Via  ton  ami!''  repeated  Ali,  quite  undisturbed,  and 
now  smiling  from  ear  to  ear. 

"Hallo,  Mrs.  Mortimer,  playing  patience!  How  de 
lightfully  idle  of  you.  May  I  join  you?" 

The  rather  harsh  and  grating  but  very  individual  voice, 
which  seemed  somehow  to  belong  inevitably  to  the  big- 
boned,  lean  body  that  stood  before  her,  dropped  down 
to  Fay  as  she  looked  up  very  gravely. 

"Ali's  manners  are  abominable." 

"I'm  thankful  they  are.    Alles!" 

A  flung  coin  accompanied  the  command.  Ali  leaped, 
grasped,  looked  into  Horace  Pierpont's  eyes,  and  went 
off  towards  the  negro  village. 

"You  know  Saad  ben  Youssef  ?" 

"Bon  jour,  Saad." 

"Bon  jour,  madame,"  returned  Saad  in  a  grave,  deep 
voice,  which  sounded  lazily  sad. 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  his  long  hands  with  henna-tinted 
nails  moving  with  a  delicate  precision.  Then  he  walked 
a  short  distance,  sat  down  beside  the  stream  and  gazed 
tranquilly  towards  the  Aures  mountains. 

Pierpont  stretched  his  great  length  on  the  ground  by 
Fay's  side  and  looked  at  her  with  steady  eyes  from  under 
the  shade  of  his  tilted  hat. 


SNAKE-BITE  17 

"I  wanted  to  get  you  alone,"  he  said. 

"Why  ?"  asked  Fay,  banishing  curiosity  from  her  face 
and  voice. 

"I've  got  something  in  my  mind.  It  has  to  do  with 
your  husband.  If  I  presently  speak  to  him  about  it,  and 
he  comes  to  tell  you,  you  will  not  let  him  know  I  men 
tioned  it  first  to  you  ?" 

He  was  always  looking  straight  at  her  with  his  narrow, 
very  intelligent  grey  eyes. 

"Why  should  you  tell  me  first  ?" 

"I  wish  to." 

"I  suppose  there  would  be  no  harm  in  my " 

"Oh,  not  the  least  in  the  world." 

"Very  well,"  said  Fay. 

She  believed  that  she  had  meant  to  say  something  quite 
different.  But  the  two  words  just  happened  out  of  her 
mouth. 

"Of  course  I  know  Mortimer  is  out  here  because  of 
his  health.  But  physically  he's  strong,  isn't  he  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  But  his  chest  was  affected.  It's  only  a 
question  of  a  few  months  in  the  right  climate.  At  least 
that's  what  the  doctors  say." 

"Exactly.  And  in  the  right  climate  he  could  do  what 
most  men  could  do." 

"What  do  you  want  him  to  do?"  asked  Fay,  with 
sudden  energy. 

With  a  long  sweep  of  one  great  arm  Pierpont  indi 
cated  the  desert. 

"Look  at  that  motionless  sea.  I'm  going  to  set  sail 
upon  it,  to  take  ship,  and  go  out  on  a  long  voyage.  Do 
you  know  where  Saad  has  been?" 

The  sensitive  blood  rushed  to  Fay's  temples.  A  strange 
song  seemed  to  drum  in  her  ears,  barbaric,  provocative 
and  tremendous.  Suddenly  she  felt  violently  excited  and 
desolate ;  she  knew. 

"You  are  going  to  make  the  journey  to  Tombouctou," 
she  said. 

"I  am." 


18  SNAKE-BITE 

"And "    She  was  silent,  staring  at  him. 

"Why  not  dare  to  say  it?" 

"You  want  my  husband  to  go  with  you  ?" 

"Women  understand  everything,"  he  returned  quietly. 
"Saad  reckons  the  journey  at  four  months  and  a  half 
to  five  months,  by  camel  of  course.  The  camel  is  the 
only  ship  for  that  sea." 

Again  he  waved  his  long  arm. 

"When  he  covered  the  route  before  not  a  soul  was  ill 
from  start  to  finish — really  ill.  Now  and  then  there  was 
a  touch  of  something,  as  there  is  everywhere,  in  Margate 
— anywhere." 

Margate ! 

Fay  was  inundated  by  a  flood  of  jealousy,  jealousy  of 
men.  Margate  for  women  and  the  journey  to  Tombouc- 
tou  for  men!  The  scales  were  too  uneven.  She  felt 
almost  in  a  passion  and  she  wanted  to  cry  angrily.  So 
she  sat  very  still  and  said  in  a  cold  voice : 

"Alan  is  pledged  to  Monsieur  Darbley  for  the  winter." 

"And  if  I  can  settle  things  with  Darbley?  D'you 
think  your  husband  would  come?  The  fact  is  I  want  a 
doctor  with  me.  It's  safer.  I'm  fond  of  life.  I  haven't 
the  slightest  desire  to  go  before  my  time.  And  there 
are  moments  when  a  doctor,  a  skilled  surgeon  as  Mor 
timer  is,  comes  in  very  handy." 

Fay  looked  into  Pierpont's  long,  irregular  face,  and 
though  she  did  not  know  it,  her  eyes  flashed  anger  at 
him. 

"Even  if  you  arranged  with  Monsieur  Darbley  I  don't 
see  how  Alan  could  go,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?"  said  Pierpont,  knocking  out  his  pipe. 

How  she  hated  him  at  that  moment! 

"Well,  Alan  is  stupid  enough  to  be  rather  fond  of  me." 

And  her  lips  trembled  in  spite  of  herself. 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"What  has "  she  paused.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

she  said,  in  a  different  voice. 

"Wrould  you  be  afraid  of  the  journey?" 


SNAKE-BITE  19 

"You — you  meant — you  wish  me  to  go  too?" 

He  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  her  steadily.  She  felt 
that  she  became  suddenly  white. 

'I — I  didn't  understand,"  she  murmured,  and  there 
was  a  helpless  note  in  her  voice. 

"But  now  you  understand  why  I  spoke  to  you  first," 
he  said,  pressing  some  tobacco  into  the  red-brown  bowl 
of  his  pipe.  "If  you  say  you'll  come  J'H  ask  Mortimer. 
If  you  don't  I  shall  probably  not  feel  justified  in  asking 
him.  It  would  perhaps  be  hardly  fair  to  you." 

Fay  said  nothing,  and  looked  out  over  the  desert.  Her 
face  was  still  very  white.  .  .  . 

That  evening  the  Mortimers  and  Horace  Pierpont 
dined  at  the  same  small  table  in  the  salle-d-manger  of 
the  Excelsior  Hotel.  They  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of 
dining  together  since  they  had  come  to  know  each  other 
casually  as  fellow-guests  in  the  pleasant  white  guest 
house  which  stood  facing  due  south.  Pierpont  was  a 
sociable  man  and  delighted  in  good  talk,  and  he  had 
evidently  taken  a  fancy  to  the  young  doctor,  and  enjoyed 
discussion  with  him.  So  they  "pooled"  the  table,  and 
Pierpont  was  not  bored  with  his  own  company. 

When  that  evening's  dinner  was  over  Pierpont  asked 
Mortimer  to  stroll  with  him  to  the  street  of  the  dancers. 

"Of  course,"  said  Alan,  in  his  quick,  warm  tenor  voice, 
which  nearly  always  sounded  eager  and  vital.  "Shall  I 
run  up  and  get  you  a  wrap,  Fay  ?" 

"No;  I  think  I'll  stay  at  home.  I've  got  an  interesting 
book  by  Metchnikoff.  You'll  find  me  on  the  balcony 
of  our  room  when  you  come  in.  Good  night,  Mr.  Pier 
pont." 

That  evening  Pierpont  did  an  unusual  thing.  In  re 
turning  her  good  night  he  held  out  his  big  hand  with  long 
fingers  and  enormous  prominent  knuckles.  After  an 
instant's  hesitation  Fay  put  her  hand  in  it,  and  when  he 
pressed  her  hand  she  felt  like  something  being  swal 
lowed. 

She  ran  up  to  her  room,  and  from  the  balcony  saw 


20  SNAKE-BITE 

the  two  men  walk  slowly  away  down  the  white  garden 
road  between  the  dwarf  palms  and  mimosa  trees.  A 
yellow  dog  of  nondescript  breed  cheerfully  accompanied 
them.  Alan  was  quite  a  good  height,  over  five  feet  ten, 
and  well  built,  but  she  noticed  that  he  looked  a  small 
man  beside  Horace  Pierpont.  Was  not  such  bigness 
really  almost  a  sort  of  deformity?  It  seemed  to  Fay 
that  she  strove  to  think  so,  but  failed.  The  physical 
bigness  of  the  American  really  exercised  upon  her  im 
agination  a  sort  of  almost  overpowering  fascination. 
She  did  not  know  exactly  why.  His  fortune  was  vast. 
So  everyone  said.  And  he  was  about  to  go  upon  a  vast 
journey  through  the  vastness  of  the  desert.  The  man 
himself,  that  is  the  soul  of  him,  must  surely  be  tremen 
dous,  too,  compared  with  the  average  soul  of  man.  Was 
not  its  bulk  shadowed  forth  to  her,  and  to  others,  by  his 
careless  and  unfailing  self-possession?  Never,  even  for 
a  moment,  did  he  give  the  impression  that  he  was  sensi 
tive  to  opinion,  sensitive,  that  is,  in  the  sense  of  shrink 
ing  ever  so  slightly  from  an  opinion  that  might  be  ad 
verse,  even  hostile,  to  him.  Never  did  he  seem  to  be 
on  the  defensive.  Since  she  had  known  him,  Fay  had 
become  acutely  aware  how  often  most  people  are  secretly 
or  openly  on  the  defensive. 
.  He  was  surely  a  big  man. 

And  now  he  was  going  to  tell  Alan  what  he  had  told 
her  by  the  stream  in  the  morning. 

In  the  white-walled,  rather  bare,  and  exquisitely  clean 
bedroom  which  she  shared  with  Alan  there  were  two 
small  beds,  side  by  side,  each  enclosed  by  its  mosquito- 
net.  A  balcony,  just  big  enough  for  two,  projected  be 
yond  the  French  window  above  the  paved  terrace  be 
low.  Fay  wound  a  gauzy  white  wisp  of  a  thing  round 
her  long  white  neck,  which  somebody  (of  course  a  man) 
had  once  said  was  like  the  throat  of  a  deer,  put  the  lamp 
on  the  table  behind  her  long  straw  chair,  lay  down  on  it, 
pushed  up  a  big  pink  cushion  to  the  level  of  her  golden- 
brown  head  and  opened  the  Metchnikoff  book. 


SNAKE-BITE  21 

But  she  did  not  read  one  word  of  it.  She  was  in  the 
street  of  the  dancers  assisting  at  a  debate.  What  issues 
hung  on  it!  And  yet — did  they?  Were  not  all  the 
issues  in  her  own  hands?  She  was  absurd  enough  to 
look  down  at  her  narrow,  long-fingered  hands.  The 
wedding  ring  and  the  emerald  ring  Alan  had  given  her 
glittered  now  as  she  held  up  her  left  hand.  If  she  had 
obeyed  her  father's  advice  they  wouldn't  be  there.  And 
where  would  she  have  been  now  if  a  certain  native  obsti 
nacy  had  not  formed  part  of  what  Americans  would  call 
her  "make-up"? 

What  stars  they  were !  And  how  the  dogs  were  bark 
ing!  It  was  surely  a  night  for  the  deciding  of  a  fate, 
ominous  with  prophecy. 

She  lay  very  still,  and  she  was  conscious  that  her 
nerves  gnawed  at  her,  as  they  had  gnawed  at  her  when, 
as  a  child,  she  had  waited  to  be  called  in  to  the  ugly 
room  of  the  dentist.  She  wished  she  could  rush  upon 
her  fate.  Lying  there  under  the  stars,  and  hearing  the 
dogs  bark  on  the  house-tops  and  by  the  tents  of  the 
Nomads,  was  almost  intolerable.  Yet  she  did  not  move. 

About  half-past  ten  she  heard  steps,  and  then  sounds 
of  voices. 

A  quick  tenor  voice  spoke  at  some  length ;  then  a  rather 
harsh,  rugged  voice  briefly  replied. 

Fay  quickly  slipped  sideways  out  of  her  chair  and  into 
the  bedroom. 

A  minute  later  the  door  opened  and  Alan  came  in, 
looking  excited,  his  honest,  intelligent  and  very  clear 
hazel  eyes  shining,  and  his  chestnut  hair  rather  dis 
ordered  by  the  cap  he  had  just  pulled  off. 

"Oh,  Fay,  not  gone  to  bed  yet!  That's  right.  Why 
not  come  down  for  a  minute?" 

"Down!    To  the  terrace,  d'you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"But  I've  said  good  night " 

"To  Pierpont — never  mind.    We've  got  an  Arab  with 


22  SNAKE-BITE 

us,  Saad  ben  Youssef.  I  think  you'd  like  him.  He's  an 
extraordinarily  interesting  fellow." 

"Very  well,  I'll— no,  it's  late.    I  think  I  won't." 

He  held  the  door  open,  looking  at  her. 

"No,  really,  I  think  I  won't" 

And  with  resolution  she  unwound  the  scarf  from  her 
throat. 

"I've  seen  Saad  already,"  she  added. 

"I  know.    But  I  should  like  you  to  hear  him  talk." 

"It's— it's  really  too  late." 

And  turning  her  back  she  went  towards  the  wardrobe. 

"All  right.  I'll  tell  Pierpont,  and  be  with  you  di 
rectly." 

The  door  shut  and  she  heard  him  in  the  uncarpeted 
passage  hurrying  away.  She  began  to  undress  with  a 
sort  of  trembling  deliberation.  She  laid  her  white  gown 
away  in  a  trunk  carefully.  Then  she  looked  in  the  glass. 
She  saw  a  slim,  girlish  figure,  very  delicate  in  line.  The 
arms  were  thin,  and  the  skin  which  covered  them  had 
a  polished  and  almost  transparent  look.  The  waist  was 
naturally  small  and  the  bust  but  slightly  rounded.  The 
hips  were  narrow  and  the  limbs  were  long  in  proportion 
to  the  body.  In  the  face,  with  its  small  features,  straight, 
short  nose,  curved  lips  and  little  determined  chin,  there 
was  a  kind  of  pale  expectancy.  It  was  the  sort  of  in 
tensely  feminine  face  which  makes  very  male  men  feel 
the  glory  of  the  contrast  between  the  sexes  and  under 
stand  their  manhood.  It  seemed  to  ask  instinctively 
without  knowing  that  it  asked,  and  half-broodingly  to 
dream  over  its  own  tenuous  mystery.  Perhaps  the  vol 
cano  was  asleep. 

Steps  sounded  again  in  the  passage,  and  Fay  turned 
round  as  Alan  came  in. 

"Saad  has  gone,"  he  exclaimed. 

His  voice  was  rather  louder  than  usual.  He  threw 
down  his  cap  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  where  some  flowers 
stood  in  the  midst  of  books. 

"Oh,  are  you  beginning  to  go  to  bed  already  ?" 


SNAKE-BITE  23 

"Do  you  want  to  talk?" 

She  slipped  on  a  white  dressing-gown. 

"Fay,  you  always  look  delicate,  but  you  are  strong, 
aren't  you  ?" 

"Yes;  stronger  than  you  are  now.*' 

"This  out-of-door  life  is  doing  wonders  for  me,  and 
the  air.  D'you  know  what  I  believe  I  need  to  get  abso 
lutely  well  ?" 

"What?" 

"Just  to  rough  it,  and  keep  nearly  always  out  of  doors; 
in  this  climate,  of  course." 

She  pushed  the  mosquito-curtain  and  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  her  bed. 

"I  don't  know  about  the  roughing  it,"  she  murmured, 
looking  down. 

"I  do.  I  say,  will  you  hate  it  if  I  smoke?  The  win 
dow's  wide  open." 

"No;  do  smoke." 

He  lit  a  cigar  which  Pierpont  had  just  given  him,  sat 
down  by  the  window,  leaned  an  arm  on  the  table  by  the 
lamp,  and  looked  at  his  wife  with  a  sort  of  intensely 
eager  and  searching  scrutiny,  which  was  totally  unsus 
picious. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  the  spirit  of  adventure  in  you, 
Fay." 

"What  has  made  you  think  about  such  a  thing?" 

"I  wonder  whether  you  ever  long  to  have  some  ex 
traordinary  experience,  to  get  right  out  of  the  ordinary,  to 
keep  out  of  it,  to  forget  it." 

"When  it  rained  at  Margate,  Alan,  really  sometimes 
I  did." 

"You  darling !"  he  said,  in  a  different  voice. 

He  moved,  as  if  about  to  come  to  her,  then  stopped 
with  the  exclamation : 

"Oh,  my  smoke!" 

"Well?"  said  Fay. 

"Now  don't  be  frightened;  I've  had  a  most  startling 
proposition  made  to  me  to-night  by  Pierpont." 


24  SNAKE-BITE 

"Mr.  Pierpont!    What  does  he  want?" 

"He's  going  to  do  a  tremendously  interesting  thing. 
He's  going  to  travel  through  the  desert  from  here  to " 

Alan  paused. 

"Where  ?"  asked  Fay.    "To  Tunis." 

"Tunis !"  Alan  laughed  and  jerked  up  his  head. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

"It  sounds  so  absurdly  near,  like  going  from  Margate 
to  Birchington.  No ;  Pierpont  is  going  on  camel  back  to 
Timbuctoo,  or  as  they  call  it  here,  Tombouctou." 

"Good  gracious !"  said  Fay. 

She  moved  from  the  bed,  letting  file  net  slip  softly, 
and  sat  down  on  a  chair. 

"Not  ordinary,  is  it?" 

"No,  but  Mr.  Pierpont  isn't  ordinary." 

"You  like  him,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes.     He's  interesting  and  very  agreeable." 

"Powerful  too — somehow." 

"Is  he?" 

"I  seem  to  feel  that  he  is." 

"Perhaps.    Well,  and  what  is  his  proposition  ?" 

"Don't  scream!  It's  simply  this.  He  wants  a  doctor 
to  go  with  him,  and  he's  asked  me." 

"You!" 

"Me." 

"To  go  to  Tombouctou!" 

"Yes." 

"But  you  have  promised  Monsieur  Darbley." 

"Of  course  I  should  have  to  get  him  to  let  me  off — if 
I  went." 

"And  if  he  refused  to  release  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  go  then,  though  I've  no  contract.  I'll 
deal  squarely  with  him,  of  course." 

"Then  you  do  want  to  go  ?" 

"Pierpont  offers  me  all  expenses  till  I  get  back  to 
England,  and  a  thousand  pounds  every  six  months  I'm 
with  him.  The  trip  would  probably  last  six  to  eight 
months,  or  so." 


SNAKE-BITE  25 

Fay  sat  looking  down.  Then,  still  looking  down,  she 
said: 

"And  what  should  I  do  all  the  time  you  were  away?" 

"Now  for  it!"  said  Alan,  getting  up. 

Fay  glanced  at  him  across  the  table,  and  saw  that  the 
excitement  in  his  eyes  had  become  stronger.  They  had 
shone.  Now  they  burned.  By  that  she  realised  how 
much  he  wanted  to  go. 

"Of  course  I  could  never  leave  you  for  six  months. 
You  must  know  that" 

"Then  what  is  the  good  of  talking  about  Tombouctou  ?" 

"Couldn't  you  brace  yourself,  steel  yourself,  call  up 
the  spirit  of  adventure  in  yourself,  and  say  you'd  come 
too?" 

"My  dear  Alan!" 

She,  too,  got  up.  She  was  feeling  horribly  insincere 
and  hated  herself — in  a  way.  But  about  her,  as  if  in 
the  air,  she  felt  Pierpont,  felt  as  if  he  were  directing  her, 
impelling  her.  And  that  seemed  partially  to  excuse  her 
to  herself. 

"My  dear  Alan !"  she  repeated.  "How  could  a  woman 
do  such  a  thing?" 

"Isabella  Bird "  he  began. 

And  he  spoke  of  famous  women  travellers,  quoted 
Mary  Kingsley  and  others,  then  broke  into  a  laugh  as 
he  looked  at  the  slim  form  in  the  white  robe  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table. 

"They  weren't  like  you,"  he  had  to  confess.  Then 
he  added : 

"But  they  didn't  have  two  men  to  look  after  them  all 
the  time,  as  you  would  have.  And  Saad  too!  Saad  is 
going  to  manage  the  whole  thing.  That's  why  I  wanted 
you  to  have  a  talk  with  him.  I  thought  he  would  impress 
you."  I 

"But  Mr.  Pierpont!  He — he  can't  really  be  willing 
to  saddle  himself  with  a  woman  on  such  a  journey." 

There  was  now  a  faint  red  in  her  cheeks. 

"He'd— surely  he'd  get  utterly  sick  of  it?" 


26  SNAKE-BITE 

"He  says  not.  You  see,  he's  rich  enough  to  do  the 
whole  thing  as  well  as  it  can  be  done.  Now  let  me  just 
tell  you!" 

He  came  round  the  table,  forgetting  his  "smoke," 
sat  in  the  armchair,  and  made  Fay  sit  on  his  knee,  hold 
ing  her  round  the  waist.  Then  he  talked — talked  till 
the  night  grew  late.  And  Fay  listened  with  the  faint 
red  still  in  her  cheeks,  and  carried  on  simultaneously 
an  intensely  active  life  in  her  brain  which  her  husband 
knew  nothing  of. 

"I  must  sleep  on  it,"  she  said  at  last.  "It's  the  most 
extraordinary  proposition  I  ever  heard  of.  No  doubt 
it  would  be  wonderfully  interesting,  an  experience  never 
to  be  forgotten.  It  would  almost  make  me  famous, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"I  should  think  so!  The  girl  who'd  travelled  from 
Beni  Mora  on  a  camel  to  Tombouctou !" 

"Let  me  go,  Alan.    Don't  talk  to  me  any  more." 

He  let  her  go.  Presently  she  slipped  under  the  mos 
quito-curtain  without  bidding  him  good-night.  And 
then  till  morning  she — lay  awake  on  it.  She  had,  in  a 
way,  promised  Pierpont  by  the  stream  that  she  would  go 
if  Alan  consented.  When  Pierpont  was  actually  beside 
her  it  had  seemed  impossible  to  do  otherwise.  But  now 
he  was  not  beside  her.  And  since  Alan  knew  things 
seemed  different. 

A  thousand  pounds  every  six  months. 

Her  cheeks  burned  in  the  dark.  What  was  Pierpont 
really  ?  What  was  he  to  himself  ?  She  didn't  know.  He 
was  to  her  an  enigma.  Women  don't  always  know  what 
men  are.  Fay  didn't  know  what  Pierpont  was.  But  one 
thing  about  him  she  did  know.  He  had  within  him  the 
spirit  of  adventure.  It  was  not  his  project  of  travelling 
by  camel  to  Tombouctou  that  proved  this  to  Fay;  it 

was  his  invitation  to — well,  to  a  doctor  to  go  with  him. 
****** 

"If  the  idea  worries  you,  Fay,  of  course  we'll  give  it 
up,"  said  Alan,  three  days  later. 


SNAKE-BITE  37 

Fay  was  looking  worried.  She  was  pale,  and  had 
skepless  eyes  with  a  very  faint  blueness  beneath  them. 
She  was  restless,  and  even  a  little  irritable,  and  seemed 
unable  to  settle  to  anything.  And  she  had  come  to  no 
decision  about  the  great  matter,  or,  if  indeed  she  had, 
had  said  nothing  about  it. 

"I  suppose  we  must  decide  one  way  or  the  other,"  she 
said,  rather  crossly. 

"Yes;  I  really  think  I  must  give  Pierpont  a  definite 
answer.  And  Darbley  arrives  by  the  train  from  Con- 
stantine  this  afternoon.  I'm  going  to  meet  him  at  half- 
past  two." 

"I'll  tell  you  to-morrow  morning." 

As  she  said  the  words  Pierpont  came  round  the  corner 
into  the  small  oval  space  surrounded  by  trees  where  they 
were  sitting  in  the  Count's  garden. 

"Will  you  ride  with  me  at  two  to-day?  It  isn't  very 
hot,  and  I've  got  hold  of  a  horse  that's  a  weight-carrier." 

With  a  quiet  smile  he  glanced  down  at  himself. 

"To-day?  I  was  just  saying  to  Fay  that  I'd  promised 
to  meet  Darbley  at  the  station,"  said  Alan. 

"A  pity!    Will  you  come,  Mrs.  Mortimer?" 

Fay  looked  at  him  and  knew  he  had  overheard  her 
last  words.  She  opened  her  lips  to  say  some  polite  form 
of  "No,"  and  said: 

"Yes,  if  you  like,  and  if  I  can  get  that  grey  mare  from 
Coreau's  stables." 

"I'll  see  to  that,"  said  Pierpont.  "I'll  go  about  it 
now."  And  his  giant  form  disappeared  among  the  trees. 

"We  must  give  him  his  answer  to-morrow,"  said  Alan, 
passing  a  brown  hand  over  his  chestnut  hair  and  lifting 
his  eyebrows  rather  anxiously. 

Fay  did  not  tell  him  that  she  knew  Pierpont  meant 
to  have  it  that  day. 

Pierpont  got  the  grey  mare  from  Coreau's,  and  they 
rode  into  the  desert,  going  out  through  the  village  to 
wards  the  north-west. 

"We'll  leave  the  dunes  on  our  right,"  said  Pierpont, 


28  SNAKE-BITE 

"and  get  a  fine  gallop  over  the  great  flats  between  them 
and  the  road  to  Amara.  And  we'll  come  home  by  Sidi 
Zerzour." 

He  did  not  ask  Fay  if  she  was  up  to  such  a  long  ride. 
He  knew  she  was  a  good  horsewoman  and  wiry  in  the 
saddle.  She  glanced  at  him  half  submissively,  half  with 
defiance  as  he  finished.  Her  lips  were  mutinous,  and 
her  lower  jaw  and  chin  obstinate.  But  her  eyes — were 
they  not  the  eyes  of  a  slave  ?  And  her  figure  in  its  thin 
ness  looked  almost  fluid. 

They  came  to  the  dunes.  On  the  left  were  the  shining 
flats.  Here  and  there,  far  off,  the  dull  green  stain  of 
a  distant  oasis  showed  on  the  tawny  waste.  The  horizon 
was  lost  in  a  dream  of  indigo  blue  more  wonderful  than 
the  indigo  blue  of  a  tropical  sea.  An  eagle  hung  in  the 
near  lighter  blue  above  their  heads.  A  little  wind  came 
and  went,  savouring  its  freedom  and  telling  them  with 
its  whispering  voices  tales  of  the  magic  of  emptiness. 

Pierpont  had  chosen  well  the  place  for  her  decision. 

"To  the  left!"  he  said,  in  his  harsh  voice,  pressing 
his  knee  against  his  horse's  flank.  "Good-bye  to  the 
dunes." 

He  looked  at  Fay  and  they  were  off,  and  the  little 
wind  with  them,  whispering  more  loudly  as  they  raced 
towards  the  dull  green  stains  that  were  palms,  and  the 
indigo  blue  that  was  the  call  to  women  and  men  to  go 
onward. 

"Now,  after  that,  can  you  hesitate  ?" 

They  were  beyond  the  track  to  Amara,  and  the  ground 
was  broken  and  tufted  with  dusty  half  a  grass.  The 
horses  picked  their  way  at  a  foot's  pace. 

"I  don't  mean  to  go/'  said  Fay,  looking  at  her  horse's 
thin  neck. 

"Why  not?" 

''Why  do  you  want  us  to  go?    It's  a  mad  idea." 

"Mad  ideas  keep  me  a  live  man." 

"You  would  get  sick  of  us.  It's  just  a  whim,  and  you 
would  repent  of  it." 


SNAKE-BITE  29 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  you're  afraid  you  would  ?" 

"I  shall  not  risk  that." 

"Then  I  shall  ask  your  husband  to  come  alone  with 


me." 


Fay  grew  scarlet. 

"You  told  me  you  wouldn't  do  that." 

"You  told  me  you  would  come  if  he  would." 

"I  hadn't  had  time  to  think  over  it  then.  Alan  wouldn't 
go  without  me." 

"He  wants  terribly  to  go.  I  must  have  a  doctor.  I 
know  he  is  poor.  I  would  offer  him  great  bribes.  I 
would  fight  hard  against  your  influence.  And  I  generally 
get  my  way — even  with  men." 

"Why  is  that?"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  sombre  bitter 
ness. 

"My  intentions  are  very  strong,  stronger  even  than 
my  limbs." 

She  glanced  at  his  great  frame  and  thought  of  cen 
taurs. 

"Alan  wouldn't  leave  me,"  she  said. 

"Very  well;  we'll  fight  it  out." 

A  slow  defiance  of  this  man  smouldered  within  her. 
Yet  she  felt  doubtful  of  her  own  powers.  Suppose  he 
did  prevail  upon  Alan  to  go  without  her?  How  much 
did  Alan  love  her?  Till  this  moment  she  had  never 
bothered  about  that  question.  She  had  assumed  that 
Alan  would  sacrifice  anything  for  her  sake. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  are  so  determined  to  take 
Alan,"  she  said.  "You  could  easily  get  a  French  doctor 
to  go  with  you.  Most  people  would  jump  at  such  an 
offer." 

"But  you  don't." 

"I'm  not  a  man." 

Pierpont  pulled  up  his  horse  and  turned  its  head  to 
the  south. 

"Look!"  he  said. 

Fay  turned  her  horse  too. 

And  they  looked  out  over  the  desert. 


30  SNAKE-BITE 

"Are  men  to  have  all  the  adventures?"  he  said.  "Is 
all  the  real  glory  of  living  to  be  exclusively  theirs  ?  Some 
women  haven't  thought  that  What  about  Isabella  Eber- 
hardt?  You've  been  reading  her  books,  I  know.  Haven't 
they  said  anything  to  you?  Don't  you  remember  your 
Kinglake,  and  the  strange  lady  of  the  Lebanon?  Isn't 
the  spirit  of  unrest  in  every  human  being  who's  worth 
anything?  I  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself. 
You  are  longing  to  go.  If  you  don't  go,  all  your  life 
you'll  regret  it.  You'll  lie  awake  in  the  night  many  a 
time,  and  you'll  clench  your  hands  and  think,  'What  a 
fool  I  was!  I  was  the  greatest  of  all  cowards  for  I  was 
afraid  to  be  happy.  I  was  afraid  to  make  my  life  in 
teresting  !' " 

The  harsh  voice  seemed  just  then  to  be  telling  Fay 
her  own  innermost  truth,  to  be  prophesying  what  she 
knew  must  inevitably  come  to  pass  if 

If! 

But  there  was  always  her  secret  obstinacy  to  be  dealt 
with.  And  it  persisted  now.  She  looked  towards  the 
far  horizon,  she  looked  towards  Tombouctou.  But  she 
would  not  give  in. 

"We  must  fight  it  out,"  she  said.  "Now,  I'm  tired. 
Let  us  go  home,  please." 

That  evening  Alan  told  her  that  Monsieur  Darbley 
wouldn't  stand  in  the  way  of  his  going. 

"He's  been  awfully  decent  about  it.  He  says  it's  the 
opportunity  of  a  lifetime,  and  I'm  not  to  think  of  him  at 
all.  So  now  it  depends  entirely  on  you,  Fay." 

"Alan,  I  think  a  woman  would  be  horribly  in  the  way 
on  such  an  expedition." 

"Tell  me  the  truth,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  his 
eager  bright  eyes.  "Are  you  afraid  to  go?" 

After  a  pause  she  answered: 

"Yes,  I  am." 

Alan  sat  still  for  a  moment  staring  at  her.  She  saw 
by  his  face,  and  even  by  his  attitude,  that  he  was  tre 
mendously  disappointed. 


SNAKE-BITE  31 

"Well,  Fay,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  voice  that  was 
definitely  cheerful.  "We'll  give  it  up.  I  expect  you  are 
right.  It's  probably  too  great  an  undertaking  for  a 


woman." 


"Yes,"  she  said  faintly. 

Alan  got  up,  came  to  her,  and  gave  her  a  rather  boy 
ish  kiss. 

"And  now "  he  said. 

"Why,  where  are  you  going?" 

"I'm  going  to  tell  Pierpont     He  ought  to  know  at 


once." 


And  he  went  out  of  the  room  quickly. 

They  had  been  talking  in  the  salon  of  the  hotel.  Din 
ner  was  just  over,  and  Pierpont  had  gone  off,  probably 
into  the  garden  to  smoke.  Fay  sat  alone  and  looked  at 
the  room.  Just  opposite  to  her  hung  on  the  white  wall 
a  marvellous  photograph.  It  showed  an  ocean  of  sand 
waves  in  the  track  of  a  setting  sun.  On  the  crest  of 
one  wave  were  the  footprints  of  a  camel.  Just  beyond 
an  Arab,  with  his  face  to  the  sunset,  lifted  his  bronze- 
coloured  arms,  from  which  his  white  burnous  fell  back, 
in  a  gesture  of  fanatical  worship.  Liberty  and  silence 
lived  in  the  photograph.  Fay  looked  at  it  for  a  long 
time,  and  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  Alan  was  horribly 
disappointed,  but  she  felt  sure  that  his  disappointment 
was  as  nothing  compared  with  hers. 

Presently  she  got  up,  and  went  out  to  the  terrace. 
She  had  seen  from  the  open  French  window  that  no  one 
was  there.  Pierpont  and  Alan  were  fighting  it  out  some 
where  else. 

She  walked  slowly  up  and  down  for  a  long  time  under 
the  stars  in  the  warm  night  air.  What  was  Pierpont 
saying  to  Alan?  How  would  he  try  to  persuade  him? 
And  if  Alan  were  to  give  in — what  then?  She  would 
certainly  say  nothing.  She  would  accept  the  situation 
and  they  could  go  away  together.  Pierpont  would  no 
doubt  have  punished  her.  But  how  about  himself  ?  Sure- 


32  SNAKE-BITE 

ly  it  was  not  possible  that  she  had  misread  him,  had  failed 
to  understand  his  real  desire. 

What  a  long  time  they  were  away !  She  was  getting 
quite  weary  of  walking.  The  waiter  came  out  and 
stared. 

"Do  you  want  to  shut  up  the  house?"  she  asked  him. 

"No,  madame — no.  The  gentlemen  are  still  out.  I 
cannot  shut  up  till  they  come  in." 

He  sighed  and  went  in  slowly. 

Alan  must  certainly  be  arguing  the  matter.  He 
couldn't  have  refused  point  blank  in  such  a  way  that 
Pierpont  had  had  to  drop  the  subject.  She  looked  at 
her  watch  by  a  light  from  a  window.  It  was  past  eleven. 

Just  then  she  heard  voices  on  the  high  road  close  to 
the  railing  of  the  garden.  Pierpont  was  speaking.  She 
stood  very  still  by  the  window.  Now  she  heard  Alan. 
He  and  Pierpont  had  stopped  and  were  talking  by  the 
garden  gate.  She  wondered  why  till  she  was  aware  of 
a  grave  voice  interrupting  them.  Saad  ben  Youssef  was 
with  them.  Now  she  caught  the  words,  "C'est  la  saison. 
On  doit  partir  maintenant."  Then  she  missed  some 
thing,  and  then  she  heard  distinctly  "Tombouctou." 

They  were  still  talking  about  that  journey;  they  were 
even  discussing  the  right  moment  for  departure.  Then 
Pierpont  had  had  the  audacity  and  the  cruelty  to  do  what 
he  had  threatened  to  do,  and  it  seemed  that  actually 
he  had  prevailed.  It  must  be  so.  Otherwise,  why  should 
they  be  with  Saad  talking  about  the  departure  ? 

"Alan !"  Fay  called  sharply. 

To  herself  her  voice  sounded  horribly  loud  in  the  night. 
But  he  did  not  hear  it  She  waited,  and  still  they  were 
talking  by  the  gate. 

"Alan !"  she  cried  out  again. 

"Fay !    Is  that  you  ?    Where  are  you  ?" 

"On  the  terrace.  Do  come  in.  It's  very  late,  and  they 
want  to  shut  up  the  house." 

In  a  moment  she  heard  his  step  and  saw  the  darkness 
of  his  form  among  the  little  trees. 


SNAKE-BITE  33 

"It's  not  much  after  eleven,"  he  said,  as  he  came  nearer. 
He  ran  lightly  up  the  few  steps  to  the  terrace.  "What's 
the  matter?"  he  added,  as  he  came  up  to  her. 

"Nothing.    Why  should  there  be  ?" 

"Your  voice  sounded  so — so  unusual." 

"I  don't  know  why.    Let  us  go  to  bed." 

"Pierpont's  just  coming.    He's  at  the  gate." 

"Surely  we  needn't  wait  for  him." 

With  a  quick  gesture  Alan  put  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Fay,  tell  me,  do  you  dislike  Pierpont?" 

"Why  should  I  dislike  him?  He's  quite  an  agreeable 
man." 

"But  you  don't  like  him !    Oh— here  he  is !" 

Pierpont  sauntered  up  the  narrow  road.  He  was  smok 
ing  his  pipe,  and  he  took  off  his  hat  when  he  saw  Fay. 

"Still  up,  Mrs.  Mortimer !  You're  wise.  It's  divinely 
beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  daytime." 

He  stepped  on  to  the  terrace. 

"The  waiter  doesn't  think  so,"  said  Fay  prosaically. 

"The  waiter?" 

"He  wants  to  shut  up." 

"I'll  send  him  to  bed,  and  lock  up  myself." 

He  called  in  a  loud  voice : 

"Louis!" 

The  waiter  appeared,  looking  obsequious  in  the  dim 
light. 

"I'll  lock  the  door.    Don't  bother  to  sit  up." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Here,  Louis!" 

He  gave  the  man  something.  Louis  looked  more  ob 
sequious  and  went  in.  When  he  was  close  to  the  door 
he  stared  at  what  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"Good  night,"  said  Fay  to  Pierpont. 

"We  can't  let  you  go  yet." 

He  drew  forward  a  straw  chair. 

"Stay  another  ten  minutes." 

Fay  opened  her  lips  to  say  no,  and  sat  down  in  the 


34  SNAKE-BITE 

chair.     Alan  and  Pierpont  sat  on  a  bench  which  was 
close  against  the  wall. 

"I  heard  you  talking  at  the  gate,"  Fay  said  abruptly. 
"You  were  still  discussing  Tombouctou.  When  do  you 
start,  Mr.  Pierpont?" 

"It  ought  to  be  very  soon.  All  the  preparations  are 
well  forward,  including  a  tent  for  you." 

She  grew  scarlet  in  the  darkness. 

"But  we  aren't  coming.    Didn't  Alan  tell  you?" 

Alan  shifted  on  the  bench,  crossed  his  legs,  held  his 
right  knee  with  his  clasped  hands,  and  answered  for 
Pierpont. 

"I've  just  been  telling  Pierpont  what  you  said  to-night, 
Fay." 

"Yes,"  said  Pierpont,  "and  I've  just  been  talking  to- 
Saad  about  the  furniture  for  your  tent,  Mrs.  Mortimer 

There  was  a  sound  of  humour  in  his  voice,  but  it  vn 
an  arbitrary  voice.     A  sudden  desire  to  bring  n^-"^"! 
to  a  crisis  overcame  Fay  and  she  said,  with  an  ej- 
carelessness :  ^ 

"Why  don't  you  go  with  Mr.  Pierpont,  Alan ;  ^fic 
a  splendid  opportunity  for  you.    I  can  go  back  to  Eng 
land  and  stay  with  father.    He's  all  alone,  and  he'll  be 
glad  to  have  me." 

"But  we  both  want  you  to  come,  Fay.    We'll  take  good, 
care  of  you,  never  fear.     Saad  says  you  will  be  qj1* 
reasonably  comfortable  and  perfectly  safe.     Of 
if  you  really  hate  the  idea  we'll  give  it  up." 

Hate  the  idea!  Fay  had  great  difficulty  in 
back  a  shriek  of  laughter  which  seemed  trying  to  figh; 
its  way  out  between  her  lips.  There  was  something  t<* 
ribly  ironic  in  being  loved  so  much  by  a  man  who  kne\v 
so  little  about  you.  Her  conception  of  her  husband's 
abysmal  ignorance  made  her  feel  reckless,  but  Pierpont's 
narrow  grey  eyes  held  her  silent. 

"Tell  your  wife  what  Doctor  Bucheron  says,"  Pier 
pont  exclaimed,  in  a  rasping  voice. 

"Doctor  Bucheron!     What  has  he  to  do  with  it?" 


SNAKE-BITE  36 

asked  Fay,  looking  quickly  from  Pierpont  to  her  hus 
band. 

"Now,  Pierpont,"  said  Alan,  with  vexation,  "I  didn't 

wish " 

"I  think  your  wife  ought  to  know." 
'Tell  me,  Alan!" 

"No,  really " 

"Then  I  will,"  said  Pierpont,  leaning  forward  and 
thrusting  out  his  chin.  "Your  husband  consulted  Bu- 
cheron  about  his  health  the  other  day,  when  I  first  asked 
him  to  come  with  me.  And  Bucheron  strongly  advised 
it,  even  urged  it." 

"Probably  Doctor  Bucheron  doesn't  wish  to  have  an 
English  doctor  here  all  the  season  interfering  with  his 
practice." 

"Oh,  Bucheron  makes  plenty  of  money  with  his  hotel. 

M  Mora  can  be  very  cold  in  January  and  February. 

•oing  south.     The  open  air  existence  is  the  ideal 

~  for  your  husband  just  now.    We  can  travel  by 

,;s.    But  that  sort  of  life  makes  everyone  hardy. 

„  now,  Mrs.  Mortimer,  will  you  set  yourself  up 

.gainst  a  doctor?" 

"It  seems  there's  a  conspiracy  to  force  me  to  go  to 
Tombouctou.     You  will  be  saying  next  that  if  I  refuse 
I  may  be  the  cause  of  Alan's  death." 
f  course  I  should  do  very  well  here  for  the  winter," 
interposed  anxiously.    "I  never  meant  you  to  know 
Bucheron." 

""But  now  I  do  know,  and  it  puts  me  into  an  awkward 
"tuation." 

''I  hope  so,"  said  Pierpont,  with  smiling  malice. 
Fay  got  up  from  her  straw  chair. 
"Do  you  absolutely  refuse  to  go  without  me,  Alan?" 
she  asked,  standing  in  front  of  the  bench  and  looking 
down  at  him. 

She  noted  an  instant— only  an  instant — of  hesitation 
before  he  answered. 
"Of  course  I  do." 


36  SNAKE-BITE 

He  got  up  with  Pierpont. 

"Either  you  go  or  the  thing's  given  up,  Fay." 

"Very  well.    We  won't  argue  any  more  about  it." 

She  paused,  keeping  them  on  the  sharp  edge  of  expec 
tation  ;  then  coldly  and  decisively  she  added : 

"I  will  go  with  you.    I  will  go  to  Tombouctou." 

"But,  Fay " 

"Don't  say  another  word,  Alan !  I  am  going.  Under 
stand  that!  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  The  matter's 
settled.  No  doubt  it  is  written  in  the  stars." 

An  almost  fanatical  look  came  into  her  face. 

"You  think,"  she  said,  gazing  at  Pierpont,  "that  you 
have  managed  the  whole  thing.  And  I  dare  say  Alan 
supposes  that  a  sense  of  wifely  duty  has  driven  me  into 
submission.  But  you  are  both  wrong.  I  have  always 
wanted  to  go." 

"Fay !"  exclaimed  her  husband. 

She  turned  on  him  almost  fiercely. 

"Who  wouldn't  want  to  make  such  a  wonderful  jour 
ney?  Why  the  mere  thought  of  it  sets  my  blood  on 
fire!" 

"But  then  why  on  earth " 

"Do  we  always  think  we  ought  to  do  what  we  want 
most  to  do?" 

"But  when  we  both " 

A  contemptuous  smile  curved  her  lips  for  a  moment. 

"Perhaps  I  thought  I  should  be  a  burden  on  the  way," 
she  interrupted.  "Perhaps  I  thought  you'd  both  end 
in  secretly  cursing  me  for  being  with  you.  Yes,  yes, 
you  might — you  may!  But  now  I  don't  mind  whether 
I'm  a  burden  or  not.  I've  given  in  to  you  both.  Take 
care  I  don't  rule  you  with  a  rod  of  iron  when  I  have 
you  both  at  my  mercy  in  the  desert.  Take  care !" 

She  began  to  laugh,  but  there  was  something  almost 
sinister  in  the  sound  of  her  low  laughter. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Pierpont,"  she  added,  suddenly 
checking  herself,  and  looking  at  him  with  deep,  almost 


SNAKE-BITE  87 

threatening  gravity.  "I  may  as  well  let  you  know  some 
thing  about  women." 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  returning  her  look  steadily. 

"They  are  never  more  dangerous  than  in  the  moment 
of  giving  in.  A  prudent  man  doesn't  force  things  on 


a  woman." 


She  turned,  walked  quickly  down  the  terrace  and  dis 
appeared  into  the  house. 

"We  shall  have  our  work  cut  out  for  us,  Mortimer!" 
said  Pierpont,  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  of  course,  she  was  only  joking,"  returned  Alan, 
rather  uncomfortably.  "Anyhow,  I'm  glad  she  really 
wants  to  go." 

"She's  a  woman  of  spirit.    I  always  knew  that." 

"Well,  if  she  is  she'll  have  plenty  of  chances  for  show 
ing  it  on  the  journey,  I  expect." 

"No  doubt." 

"Good  night,  Pierpont." 

"Good  night." 

Directly  Alan  came  into  their  bedroom  that  night  Fay 
said: 

"Alan,  I  wish  you  to  tell  me  something." 

"Of  course,  I  will.    What  is  it,  darling?" 

"Did  Mr.  Pierpont  try  to  persuade  you  to  leave  me 
here  and  go  with  him  alone  to  Tombouctou  after  you 
had  told  him  I  didn't  mean  to  go  ?" 

"Yes,  he  did,  but  only  when  I  said  you  were  afraid 
to  go." 

"Afraid !    You  told  him  I  was  afraid  ?" 

"I  repeated  just  what  you  said  to  me.  There  was  no 
harm  in  it.  Any  woman  on  earth " 

"Perhaps.  But  there's  one  woman  who  is  not  afraid 
of  anything.  And  I'm  that  woman." 

"I'm  sure  Pierpont  must  understand  that  now.  Fay, 
tell  me,  do  you  secretly  dislike  Pierpont?" 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 


38  SNAKE-BITE 

"Was  that  your  real  reason  for  refusing  to  come  at 
first?" 

"I  don't  actually  dislike  him.  No.  But,  perhaps  be 
cause  he's  so  rich,  he  is  inclined  to  suppose  that  he  must 
always  have  exactly  what  he  wants.  I  resent  that." 

"I  don't  think  he  means  to " 

"Did  he  try  to  bribe  you  to-night  to  go  with  him  ?" 

Alan  looked  uncomfortable. 

"Bribe  is  hardly  the  word." 

"Use  another  then.    Did  he  offer  you  money  ?" 

"He  said  he  must  take  a  doctor  with  him,  that  he'd 
far  rather  have  me  than  anyone  else,  that  money  was  no 
difficulty,  and  that  I  could  name  my  own  terms." 

"And  you  ?    What  did  you  say  ?" 

"That  it  wasn't  a  question  of  money,  but  of  your  feel 
ings  about  the  matter." 

"But  you  could  have  gone  without  me." 

"Oh,  no." 

She  remembered  that  instant  of  hesitation  on  his  part 

"Alan,"  she  said,  coming  close  to  him,  and  holding  his 
two  arms  with  her  long-fingered  hands,  "do  you  love  me 
very  much?" 

"Don't  you  know  it?" 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  with  a  piercing  intentness, 

"Some  women  need  a  great  deal  of  love,  more  love 
than  the  average  woman  needs.  I  do.  I  wonder  how 
much  love  you  have  to  give  me.  Some  men  have  more 
than  others.  Some  men  have  a  great  store.  They  are 
the  dangerous  men  to  women  like  me." 

There  was  something  sombre  in  her  voice,  something 
almost  menacing  in  her  eyes.  Her  hands  were  still  on 
his  arms  when  he  put  them  round  her. 

"I  don't  know  exactly  what  my  love-capacity  is,  you 

strange  girl.     But  you  would  know  if "  he  paused, 

staring  into  her  face. 

"If  what?" 

"If  a  great  test  came." 

"What  sort  of  test?" 


SNAKE-BITE  39 

"Haven't  you  enough  imagination  to  think  of  one  for 
yourself  ?" 

"Have  you?" 

"Yes.  For  instance,  if  you  were  very  ill,  if  you  were 
dying,  you  would  know  how  much  I  loved  you." 

She  slipped  out  of  his  arms. 

"You  have  a  professional  imagination,"  she  said,  as 
she  went  towards  the  dressing-table. 

Putting  up  her  hands  she  began  to  take  the  earrings 
out  of  her  ears. 

"When  shall  we  be  able  to  start?"  she  asked. 

"Very  soon,  I  believe.  Oh,  Fay,  I'm  so  thankful  you've 
consented  to  come." 

"Are  you?" 

"It's  an  opportunity  in  a  thousand." 

"Yes,  it  is  that." 

"And  if  you  have  the  spirit  of  adventure " 

"I  think  I  have  a  good  deal  more  of  that  spirit  than 
you  have." 

Again  there  was  an  almost  menacing  look  in  her  eyes 
as  they  regarded  him  in  the  mirror. 

"Perhaps.  But,  anyhow,  I  have  enough  to  feel  most 
awfully  keen  and  excited  about  the  journey.  I  shan't 
sleep,  I  know  I  shan't." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous." 

"Isn't  it  natural  to  feel  excited  under  the  circum 
stances?" 

He  moved  about  the  room,  then  stepped  out  upon  the 
balcony  and  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Pierpont's  still  out,"  he  said  presently  in  a  low  voice, 
putting  his  head  into  the  room. 

"Well,  don't  begin  talking  to  him,  because  I'm  going 
to  bed" 

"He's  really  a  splendid  chap.    I'm  certain  of  that." 

"Yes,  because  you  are  the  one  doctor  he  wants  to  take 
with  him  to  Tombouctou." 

"Hang  it,  Fay,  isn't  it  natural  to  be  gratified  when 
one's  powers  are  trusted?" 


40  SNAKE-BITE 

"Of  course.  Now  do  come  in  and  shut  the  Per 
siennes." 

Alan  obeyed  reluctantly. 

"I  almost  hate  to  shut  out  such  a  night." 

"And  to  shut  out  the  great  millionaire." 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully  with  his  hands  thrust  deep 
into  his  pockets.  His  eyes  looked  feverish,  and  his  thin 
body,  which  had  rather  obviously  been  ill,  leaned  a  little 
to  the  left  side. 

"I  say,  you  won't  be  horrid  to  Pierpont  when  we  get 
right  away  from  everyone,  will  you  ?" 

"No;  he  will  be  our  master." 

"What  rubbish!" 

"At  any  rate,  he  will  have  the  right  to  call  the  tune." 

"Pierpont's  a  gentleman,  Fay." 

"And  a  man  too." 

"Isn't  that  in  his  favour?" 

"Of  course.  But  it's  men  who  are  men  that  call  all 
the  tunes  worth  the  playing.  You  see,  they  don't  care 
how  much  they  give  the  piper.  Now  please  be  quiet, 
Alan,  I'm  going  to  say  a  prayer." 

She  knelt  down  by  the  side  of  her  bed  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands.  Her  bending  figure  seemed  to  him 
to  express  abandon.  He  couldn't  help  wondering  very 
much  what  she  was  praying  about. 

But  she  never  told  him. 

From  that  night  Fay  lived  in  a  condition  of  hidden  ex 
citement,  hidden  emotion,  which  often  gave  her  a  curi 
ous  sensation  of  living  a  double  life  in  some  strange 
and  feverish  dream.  Outwardly  she  was  self-possessed, 
energetic,  and  practical.  Really  she  was  tormented  by 
doubts,  fears,  expectations,  hopes.  Yes,  even  her  hopes 
tormented  her.  For  the  shapes  of  them  all  seemed  to 
her  monstrous.  They  passed  through  her  soul  like  great 
bellying  clouds  at  sunset,  shot  with  colours  that  were 
vivid,  or  ominous  and  dark  with  the  presage  of  storm. 
Sometimes  their  vastness  was  linked  in  her  mind  with 


SNAKE-BITE  41 

the  bigness  of  Pierpont,  who  had  called  them  all  into 
being,  and  she  felt  a  terror  of  the  immensities  which 
included  a  terror  of  the  desert.  But  the  spirit  of  adven 
ture  within  her  was  a  doughty  combatant  of  fear.  Often 
it  had  the  upper  hand.  Then  she  rejoiced  at  the  prospect 
before  her,  she  exulted  at  the  working  of  Fate.  And 
always,  at  every  moment  during  this  period  of  prepara 
tion,  she  was  strongly  alive.  Life  had  a  keen  edge  like 
the  edge  of  a  sharpened  sword.  If  it  drew  blood  pres 
ently,  what  of  that?  Better  to  suffer  by  living  than  to 
suffer  by  not  really  living;  better  to  be  cut  in  pieces 
quickly  by  a  bright  blade  than  to  be  suffocated  slowly 
under  a  mass  of  soft  pillows. 

Alan  was  surprised  by  the  tireless  energy  of  his  wife. 
The  prospect  of  the  journey,  the  effort  of  decision,  had 
wonderfully  changed  her.  More  eager  than  he  had  ever 
seen  her  before,  she  was  surely  harder  too.  Once  when 
he  commented  on  this  gently,  she  said : 

"Soft  women  can't  do  such  things  as  I'm  going  to  do." 

"You  are  a  heroine  in  Beni  Mora,"  he  said.     "The 

Arabs  are  amazed  at  your  courage.     But  I  don't  want 

you  to  turn  into  one  of  those  lean,  sunbaked  women 

who  look  as  if  they  had  been  born  in  the  saddle,  or  with 

a  gun  in  their  hands.    I  don't  want  you " 

She  interrupted  him  decisively. 

"My  dear  Alan,  remember  that  if  this  great  journey 
changes  me  very  much  that  will  be  your  fault.    You  per 
suaded  me  to  undertake  it." 
"Or  was  it  Pierpont?" 

She  remembered  an  instant's  hesitation,  and  answered : 
"No,  it  was  you.    I  am  going  because  of  you." 
"Let's  hope  you  will  never  repent  of  it." 
'7  don't  intend  to,"  she  said,  smiling.     "Repentance 
is  often  a  sign  of  weakness.    If  you  are  going  to  repent 
of  a  thing,  you  shouldn't  do  it." 
He  looked  at  her  almost  anxiously. 
"Sometimes  I  scarcely  understand  you,  Fay,"  he  said 
gravely. 


42  SNAKE-BITE 

"Perhaps  we  shall  all  come  to  a  fuller  understanding 
of  each  other  and  ourselves  on  the  journey.  We  may 
even  know  too  much  by  the  time  we  arrive  at  Tombouc- 
tou,  if  we  ever  get  there." 

"Saad  swears  he  will  bring  us  there  safely." 

'Then  that's  settled.  Now  I'm  going  into  the  market 
with  Mr.  Pierpont.  I've  got  one  or  two  things  to  buy." 

She  left  him  alone.  He  stared  after  her,  and  presently 
saw  her  slight  form  going  down  the  sunny  white  road 
towards  the  village  with  Pierpont's  huge  frame  striding 
beside  it.  Saad  ben  Youssef  followed  them  at  a  short 
distance.  As  Alan  watched  the  three  moving  figures 
he  thought  of  the  words  of  his  wife.  It  seemed  to  him 
at  that  moment  that  he  knew  too  little.  He  felt  that  he 
was  wrapped  in  faint  mists  of  ignorance.  But  those  fig 
ures  and  he  were  soon  going  out  into  the  glaring  lands, 
where  colours  were  strong  and  outlines  were  hard  and 
clear,  where  the  light  of  the  sun  was  fierce,  and  the 
shadows  lay  like  living  things  on  the  burning  gold  of 
the  sands. 

Which  was  better  for  a  man,  to  know  too  little  or  too 
much?  "Qui  odit  veritatem,  odit  Lucem."  Well,  he  loved 
the  light,  so  surely  he  would  love  any  truth  discovered 
in  the  light. 

Yet  something  in  Fay's  manner,  or  something  per 
haps  in  her  eyes,  had  troubled  his  spirit  for  a  moment. 

The  three  moving  figures  disappeared  on  the  white 
road.  The  hot  stillness  of  noon  was  about  him.  He 
leaned  his  arms  on  the  balcony  railing,  and  he  seemed 
actually  to  hear  the  great  silence  into  which  he  was  going; 
the  silence  of  the  wastes  where  there  seems  to  be  nothing, 
and  where  there  is  a  nakedness  that  is  akin  to  the  naked 
ness  of  truth. 

For  the  first  time  he  felt  a  creeping  dread  of  the  jour 
ney. 


SNAKE-BITE  43 

n 

THE   HORNED  VIPER 

For  two  days  the  Saharan  sirocco  had  prevailed.  The 
wind  from  the  north-east,  perhaps  -born  in  the  sand  hills 
of  the  great  Erg,  had  driven  across  the  desert  for  hun 
dreds  of  miles  carrying  the  sand  grains  with  it.  Now 
at  last  the  wind  had  died  away,  leaving  a  fiery  heat 
that  was  intense  as  the  heat  from  a  furnace,  and  a  silence 
that  was  startling  almost  as  a  great  outcry. 

During  the  sand-storm  Pierpont' s  caravan,  under  the 
direction  of  Saad  ben  Youssef,  had  lain  at  Insalah,  an 
oasis  containing  three  native  villages  lost  in  the  bosom 
of  the  central  Sahara.  Long  ago  our  travellers  had  been 
made  free  of  the  Sahara,  but  they  had  not  fully  under 
stood  its  menace,  its  power  for  evil,  until  this  sirocco 
came  upon  them,  whispering  to  them  with  its  hot  and  in 
sidious  voice:  "Give  rein!  give  rein!  Civilisation  has 
no  meaning  here.  The  voice  of  conscience  tells  nothing 
but  lies.  Here  men  and  women  may  do  as  they  will, 
and  they  must  will  according  to  my  behests.  Give  rein ! 
give  rein !"  And  the  wind  died ;  and  the  hot  and  insidious 
voice  grew  faint;  and  the  sand  grains  settled  down  once 
more  on  the  vast  enigmatic  wilderness.  But  the  storm 
had  left  its  mark  on  temper  and  soul;  it  had  affected  Fay 
and  her  husband  and  Horace  Pierpont  more  even  than 
they  understood. 

So  far  the  great  journey  had  seemed  to  be  a  success. 
Having  carried  his  point  at  Beni  Mora,  Pierpont  had 
shown  none  of  the  vulgar  conceit  of  triumph.  He  had 
been  considerate  and  charming  in  every  possible  way, 
in  moments  of  difficulty  serene  and  courageous,  in  long 
hours  of  monotony  patient  and  philosophic,  strong  al 
ways,  and  yet  easy  to  live  with.  And  hitherto  he  had 
never  too  obviously  called  the  tune,  although  the  size 
of  the  caravan  and  the  comparative  comfort  in  which 
they  lived,  showed  how  liberally  he  had  paid  the  piper. 


44  SNAKE-BITE 

Alan,  who  had  always  liked  him,  had  become  enthu 
siastically  devoted  to  him,  and  made  no  secret  of  the  fact, 
being  always  an  open-hearted  and  unself conscious  fel 
low. 

And  Fay? 

She  was  more  reticent  than  Alan. 

Long  before  the  caravan  reached  Insalah  Alan  had 
marked  a  change,  a  development  in  his  wife.  During 
the  journey  she  had  shown  a  resisting  power,  and  in 
difference  to  physical  discomfort,  that  were  extraordi 
nary.  Perched  on  her  Mehariste  camel  she  rode  day  after 
day  without  complaint  over  the  burning  sands,  the  dry, 
stony  water-courses,  the  hard-baked  earth  broken  up  into 
mounds  innumerable  tufted  with  half  a  grass,  the  rocky 
hillocks  that  here  and  there  rose  grotesquely  in  the  midst 
of  the  great  desolation.  She  never  called  a  halt  because 
she  was  more  weary  than  others.  Wrapped  in  the  dream 
of  the  desert  she  seemed  pertinacious,  filled  with  a  strange 
longing  to  go  onward  and  ever  onward.  She  had  be 
come  bronzed  by  the  sun  without  losing  the  almost 
ethereal  look  that  Alan  delighted  in.  Her  eyes  glittered 
with  fires  caught  surely  from  the  fires  of  the  sun.  There 
was  a  sort  of  robust  delicacy  in  her  appearance,  a  fine 
drawn  energy  in  her  movements  and  postures  which  Alan 
wondered  at  sometimes  and  admired  always.  The  only 
woman  in  the  caravan,  she  seemed  worthy  to  be  there 
taking  part  in  an  enterprise  of  men.  And  she  seemed 
aware  of  her  own  worthiness.  Although  not  usually 
capricious,  she  subtly  made  her  will-power  felt  as  she 
had  never  made  it  felt  in  the  ways  of  civilisation.  A  cer 
tain  inflexibility  was  often  manifest  in  her.  It  was  not 
ugly  though  it  was  sometimes  not  free  from  obstinacy. 
It  went  naturally  enough  with  her  physical  strength,  her 
readiness  to  endure.  In  the  bracing  of  herself  for  this 
unusual  effort  she  had,  perhaps  unconsciously,  acquired 
a  mental  robustness  which  marched,  as  it  were,  along 
side  of  her  bodily  powers. 

She  certainly  ruled  in  the  caravan.    And  now  and  then 


SNAKE-BITE  45 

she  showed  that  she  knew  this,  that  there  was  intention 
in  her  ruling.  Then  Alan  remembered  her  words  on  the 
terrace  at  Beni  Mora,  and  wondered  if  Pierpont  remem 
bered  them  too.  Hidden  in  her  wand  there  was  surely 
the  rod  of  iron  she  had  spoken  of.  Alan  did  not  find 
it  irksome  upon  his  shoulders.  But  occasionally  he  won 
dered  whether  Pierpont  felt  otherwise.  He  had  never 
found  out  exactly  what  his  wife  thought  about  Pierpont. 
She  revelled  in  their  adventure.  That  he  knew.  It  had 
shed  a  new  life  all  through  her.  Yet  he  sometimes  be 
lieved  that  she  resented  that  very  insistence  of  Pierpont 
which  had — so  Alan  supposed — brought  her  into  it,  that 
she  had  a  secret  intention  of  repayment.  Nevertheless, 
they  got  on  marvellously  well  together  in  the  terrific  in 
timacy  of  their  situation.  And  Pierpont  never  showed 
the  least  regret  for  what  he  had  done.  So  no  doubt  it 
was  "all  right."  At  any  rate,  it  was  all  right  till  the 
sirocco  came. 

When  the  wind  died  into  fire  and  the  dead  silence  fell 
over  the  plain  Saad  ben  Youssef  arose,  uncovered  his 
mouth  and  went  to  the  Travellers'  House  in  which  the 
Mortimers  and  Pierpont  had  been  lodged  for  greater 
safety  against  the  storm.  He  suggested  that  they  should 
leave  Insalah  that  night.  There  would  be  a  bright  moon. 
They  could  travel  in  the  cool.  Everything  was  ready 
and  there  was  nothing  to  wait  for  now  that  the  storm 
was  over.  While  he  spoke  from  a  room  close  by  there 
came  sounds  of  coughing. 

Pierpont,  who  looked  thinner  and  more  big-boned  and 
angular  than  even  at  Beni  Mora,  and  who  was  burnt  to 
a  deep  brown  by  the  sun,  said  he  was  ready  to  be  off  that 
evening,  but  must  consult  the  Mortimers  before  deciding 
and,  followed  by  Saad,  he  went  to  their  room  and  knocked 
on  the  palm-wood  door.  It  was  opened  by  Fay.  Looking 
beyond  her  they  saw  the  doctor  lying  stretched  on  a  pile 
of  gaudy  rugs  on  the  uncarpeted  floor.  Till  now  he  had 
borne  the  long  journey  splendidly,  but  during  the  sirocco 
he  had  suffered.  The  sand  grains,  which  penetrated 


46  SNAKE-BITE 

everywhere,  had  irritated  his  throat  and  chest,  and 
brought  on  a  hacking  cough ;  his  cheeks  showed  a  strong 
flush  through  their  freckled  brown,  and  his  eyes  looked 
unnaturally  bright  and  almost  fiercely  observant.  It  was 
evident  to  Pierpont  that  sirocco  had  played  the  devil  with 
his  friend.  He  had  never  seen  Mortimer  look  at  all  like 
this  before.  Mrs.  Mortimer,  too,  looked  strung  up  and 
as  if  she  were  on  the  edge  of  her  nerves. 

"Let's  go!  Let's  go!"  exclaimed  Alan  directly  the 
proposition  was  made.  "I've  taken  a  hatred  for  this 
place.  Let's  get  away  from  houses  out  into  the  desert 
again." 

"Is  he  fit  to  start?"  asked  Pierpont  of  Fay. 

"Of  course  I  am,"  cried  Alan,  raising  himself  on  his 
arm.  "It's  only  the  cursed  sand  that's  made  me  like 
this." 

He  glanced  quickly  from  his  wife  to  the  American,  and 
the  hard  cough  broke  out  in  his  throat. 

"Then  if  it  suits  you,  Mrs.  Mortimer,  we'll  be  off  at 
nine  to-night  after  dinner  and  travel  till  dawn." 

"I  shall  be  thankful  to  go,"  she  replied. 

There  was  something  unrestrained,  almost  reckless 
in  her  manner. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"Why?  Oh— I  hate  being  under  a  roof.    I— I " 

She  twisted  her  hands  together. 

"I  want  to  get  on,"  she  added. 

"Come  out.  It's  as  still  as  death  now.  Let  him  rest 
till  evening,"  Pierpont  whispered  to  her  while  Alan  was 
coughing.  "Come,  Saad.  We'll  be  off  at  nine,  Morti 
mer." 

"Right!" 

Again  the  loud  cough  broke  out.  Pierpont  shut  the 
rough  wooden  door.  Fay  had  said  nothing,  but  he  knew 
by  her  eyes  she  was  coming,  and  he  waited  for  her  out 
side  in  the  shadow  cast  by  the  house-wall,  with  his  feet 
planted  in  the  sand.  Saad  had  slowly  drifted  away  to 


SNAKE-BITE  47 

the  camp  which  was  pitched  in  the  oasis  a  little  to  the 
south  of  the  village. 

The  silence  that  prevailed  seemed  unnatural,  almost 
sinister,  after  the  uneasy  uproar  of  the  wind.  The 
masses  of  palm  trees  were  motionless.  But  the  water  in 
the  small  trenches  which  led  from  the  wells  glided  hap 
pily  on  its  way.  The  sun  blazed  implacably  over  the 
sand  plain  and  the  low  sand-hills  in  the  distance  sur 
mounted  by  palm  leaf  barricades.  As  Pierpont  stood 
there  he  felt  that  in  this  strange  lost  place,  in  this  dead 
peace  after  the  storm,  Fate  was  at  work  dealing  with  him 
almost  as  the  potter  deals  with  the  clay  inexorably.  Till 
the  sirocco  came  he  had  felt  that  he  was  not  only  his  own 
master  but  the  master  of  others,  despite  the  light  tyranny 
of  Fay.  Now  there  was  within  him  a  feeling  of  being 
governed.  It  had  come  with  the  sirocco.  He  disliked, 
almost  hated  it,  but  he  could  not  get  rid  of  it.  He  heard 
the  sound  of  a  step,  the  creak  of  a  door,  and  Fay  stood 
beside  him  in  the  sand. 

"We'll  go  into  the  oasis,"  Pierpont  said. 

"Yes.    How  horribly  still  it  is  I" 

"Horribly?" 

"Yes;  I  can  hear  Alan's  cough  in  it.  I  hated  the  wind, 
but  now  I  almost  want  it  back." 

"You're  ultra-sensitive.    The  sirocco  has  affected  you." 

"And  Alan  too." 

"Alan!    How?" 

They  had  been  walking  over  the  deep  sand.  Now  he 
stopped,  and  stood  looking  at  her. 

"How?   You  don't  mean  physically,  do  you?" 

"No.    Let  us  get  to  the  palm  trees.    Then  I'll  tell  you." 

She  spoke  quickly,  unevenly,  like  one  preoccupied  and 
secretly  impatient.  They  came  into  the  shade  of  the 
oasis.  Behind  them,  in  the  distance,  the  red  clay  walls 
of  the  officers'  quarters  gleamed  in  the  sunshine  with  a 
sort  of  moody  brilliance.  The  dull  yellow  water  was  at 
their  feet.  Over  their  heads  the  tufted  trees  spread  an 
unwavering  protection  against  the  burning  blue  of  the 


48  SNAKE-BITE 

heavens.  Among  the  wrinkled  trunks  shadow  and  light 
were  mingled  in  the  breathless  hush  of  nature. 

"Sit  here  against  this  palm  trunk,"  said  Pierpont 
brusquely.  "What's  the  matter  with  Mortimer?" 

He  stretched  his  great  body  beside  her. 

"Of  course  I  know  he  isn't  so  well  as  usual,  not  nearly 
so  well,"  he  added. 

"I  wonder  how  ill  he  is,"  said  Fay,  in  a  low,  almost 
surreptitious  voice. 

"How  ill?" 

"Yes ;  last  night,  when  the  storm  was  raging,  I  thought, 
'Suppose  he  were  to  be  very  ill.  Suppose  he  were  to — 
to  die !  What  would  happen  then  ?'  I  seemed  to  be  ask 
ing  the  sirocco." 

"Well — what  was  the  answer?"  said  Pierpont  harshly. 

"There  was  no  answer." 

"Because  you  asked  the  sirocco.  You  should  have 
asked  me." 

He  paused,  staring  at  her,  devouring  her  with  his  nar 
row  grey  eyes.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  and  said  noth 
ing. 

"You  haven't  told  me  what  is  the  matter  with  Morti 
mer,"  he  added,  after  a  moment 

"He  seems  to  have  suddenly  changed  towards  me." 

"In  what  way?" 

"If  it  wasn't  so  absurd  I  should  say  he  suspected  me 
of  something.  His  eyes  are  suspicious." 

"Because  he  is  unwell.  The  same  thought  that  came 
into  your  mind  may  have  come  into  his.  He  may  have 
said  to  himself,  Tf  I  were  to  become  very  ill,  if  I  were 
to  die,  she  would  be  left  with — him.'  And  then,  not  be 
ing  well  and  being  under  the  hideous  influence  of  sirocco, 
he  may  have  felt  the  touch  of  jealousy!" 

A  slow  flush  crept  upon  Fay's  cheeks  as  he  spoke.  He 
watched  it  with  a  sort  of  hunger. 

"He's  been  horrid  to  me  the  last  two  days.  All  the 
time  we've  been  married  he's  never  been  like  that  till 


now." 


SNAKE-BITE  49 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes.  The  deep  melancholy  of 
sirocco  possessed  her.  Pierpont  thrust  out  a  great  bony 
hand  and  took  hold  of  hers. 

"It's  illness.     He  can't  know." 

Fay's  hand  started  in  his.    He  held  it  fast. 

"Know  what?"  she  said  uncontrollably. 

"What  you  and  I  know,  what  we  knew  before  we  left 
Beni  Mora.  We  have  never  spoken  of  it  but  we  have 
always  known  it.  The  devil  that  kept  us  back  from  be 
ing  frank  about  it  has  been  driven  away  by  that  wind 
from  hell.  It  went  on  the  wings  of  sirocco." 

She  left  her  hand  lying  quite  still  in  his,  and,  looking 
into  his  face  almost  defiantly,  she  said : 

"I  am  tired  of  pretending  too.  In  such  a  region  as  this 
it  seems  so  horribly  unnatural  to  pretend  anything.  In 
these  last  days  I  have  sometimes  felt  desperately  reck 
less.  More  than  once,  when  he  was  horrid  to  me,  I  near 
ly  told  him." 

Now  she  tried  to  draw  away  her  hand,  and  he  let  her 
doit. 

"What  would  you  have  told  Mortimer  if  you  had 
spoken?"  said  Pierpont. 

Fay  got  up  and  stood  by  the  palm  tree  under  which 
he  was  lying.  Just  then  she  felt  a  need  to  look  down  upon 
him. 

"Oh,  just  why  I  came  on  this  journey.  He  doesn't 
know  why,  and  neither  do  you.  You're  surprised!  But 
men  scarcely  ever  know  a  woman's  reason  for  what  she 
does.  I  came  because  once  in  Beni  Mora  I  asked  Alan 
a  question  and  he  hesitated — only  for  a  second — before 
answering  it.  That  second's  hesitation  of  his  was  my 
reason  for  coming.  You  didn't  persuade  me  though 
perhaps  you  thought  you  did." 

"What  was  the  question?" 

"This:  'Do  you  absolutely  refuse  to  go  without  me, 
Alan?'" 

"I  remember.    You  said  it  on  the  terrace." 

"Yes.    Alan  could  have  left  me  to  go  with  you.    When 


50  SNAKE-BITE 

I  knew  that  I  felt  I  could  come.  I  was  changed  that 
night.  I — it  was  almost  as  if  I  became  suddenly  wicked." 

"Now  I  understand  why  you  were  menacing  that 
night." 

"Some  of  my  softness  went  out  of  me  for  ever,"  she 
said,  with  a  sort  of  strange,  almost  weary,  bitterness. 

"Do  you  repent  of  what  you  have  done?" 

"No.    But  I'm  suffering." 

"So  am  I." 

"What  did  you  mean  when  you  tried  to  force  me  to 
come  ?  What  do  you  mean  now  ?" 

"I  had  found  a  girl  who  knew  how  to  make  me  love 
when  I  thought  I  had  lost  the  power.  I  meant  to  make 
certain  of  being  always  inevitably  with  her,  far  away 
from  all  the  infernal  interruptions  of  ordinary  life." 

"And  then?" 

"Perhaps  I  meant  to  try  to  pour  my  influence  upon 
her  always  when  I  was  with  her." 

"And— then?" 

"I  let  the  future  keep  its  secret." 

"But  Alan  would  always  be  there." 

"I  was  ready  to  chance  that." 

She  gazed  at  him  in  silence.  At  that  moment  some 
thing  inside  of  her  surely  turned  pale.  Yet  she  did  not 
feel  irresolute. 

"Did  you — did  you  think  he  was  very  ill?"  she  mur 
mured. 

"I  let  the  future  keep  its  secret,"  he  repeated. 

"Why  did  the  sirocco  come?" 

When  she  said  that  Pierpont  knew  that  till  the  storm 
he  had  been  able  to  endure  without  too  great  misery  the 
bizarre  and  even  horrible  situation  which  in  Beni  Mora 
he  had  striven  to  bring  about  Now,  abruptly,  he  felt 
that  it  was  unendurable. 

"To  put  an  edge  to  our  human  misery,"  he  answered 
moodily.  "To  light  up  our  madness  so  that  we  could 
see  it  plainly  and  know  it  for  what  it  is." 

He  felt  the  silence;  he  looked  at  the  dead  stillness; 


SNAKE-BITE  51 

everything  seemed  to  have  stopped  except  the  energy  in 
their  two  souls. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?"  he  said  at  last,  looking 
again  at  her. 

"What  can  we  do?" 

"Do  you  really  think  he  suspects?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  he's  horribly  uneasy.  It's  al 
most  as  if  the  sirocco  had  made  him  clairvoyant.  And 
at  this  moment  I  don't  think  I  mind.  I  could  almost  go 
now  and  tell  him." 

"That's  the  vile  influence  of  the  wind.  It  will  pass 
away  from  us,  and  then  we  shall  be  desperately  sorry,  we 
shall  curse  ourselves,  if  we  do  anything  irreparable 
now." 

He  clenched  his  great  hands  into  fists. 

"I  won't  be  the  sport  of  nature,"  he  exclaimed.  "I'll 
be  my  own  master." 

"I've  always  felt  that  you  are  tremendously  strong." 

"You,  who  rule  me!" 

He  got  up. 

"No,  don't!"  she  said.    Don't!" 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  riding 
breeches  and  stood  still. 

"Can  Saad  have  spoken  to  Mortimer?"  he  said  after 
a  minute,  during  which  he  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground. 

"Saad !  How  could  he  know  ?"  said  Fay  in  a  startled 
voice. 

"He  knows  because  he's  an  Arab.  Arabs  know  every 
thing." 

"But  if  he  did  know,  surely  he  would  never  speak  of 
it  to  a  Roumi." 

"I  never  can  tell  what  an  Arab  will  do,  or  not  do. 
I  don't  understand  the  breed." 

"I  must  be  mad  to-day,"  she  said.  "I'm  sick  of  pre 
tence.  Something  in  me  wants  Alan  to  know.  But  if  he 
did  know,  this  isolated  life  of  us  three,  from  which  we 


52  SNAKE-BITE 

can't  escape,  would  be  impossible.  For  how  could  we 
go  on  travelling  together  if  he  knew  ?" 

"How  could  we  do  anything  else  ?  We  can't  well  break 
up  the  caravan.  We  can't  divide  Saad  in  two.  And  he's 
indispensable  to  us  all.  If  Mortimer  says  anything — 
I  don't  believe  he  will,  but  if  he  should — you  must  laugh 
at  him.  Don't  yield  if  you  have  an  impulse  to  speak 
the  truth.  Choke  the  words  down.  Fay,  do  you  love 
me?" 

"Yes.    You  seem  to  enclose  me." 

He  moved. 

"Then  let  me " 

"No;  I  love  you,  but  I  don't  mind  your  suffering.  I 
want  you  to  suffer.  I  meant  what  I  said  on  the  terrace 
at  Beni  Mora.  I  yielded  to  Alan  and  you,  but  I  always 
meant  to  punish  you.  Why  will  men  never  let  women 
alone?" 

"Wouldn't  women  curse  them  if  they  did?" 

"There  is  Saad !"  she  whispered. 

The  tall  figure  of  the  Arab  was  visible  in  the  glaring 
sunshine  coming  towards  them  across  the  sands. 

That  night  they  left  Insalah  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
journeying  due  south  across  the  shining  silver  of  the 
sands.  Alan  was  warmly  wrapped  up,  for  when  the  night 
grows  late  it  is  chilly  in  the  Sahara.  His  cough  still 
troubled  him.  As  the  long  line  of  laden  camels  moved 
on  noiselessly  at  a  regular  pace,  Fay  and  Pierpont  heard 
it,  and  it  seemed  to  Fay  to  strike  on  her  heart  like  a 
little  hammer  as  well  as  upon  her  ears.  And,  looking  out 
from  her  moving  height  upon  the  radiant  immensity 
spread  around  her,  she  said  to  herself,  "Will  he  die?" 
and  "If  he  should  die!"  And  she  felt  almost  like  one 
struggling  with  difficulties  in  a  dream.  She  did  not  want 
Alan  to  die,  and  yet  she  knew  that  life  could  never  be  to 
her  the  gift  she  desired  while  he  lived.  If  Alan  could 
cease  from  her  life  and  leave  her  legitimately  free,  with 
out  dying,  she  could  give  herself  to  the  happiness  every 


SNAKE-BITE  53 

woman  wishes  for.  Yet  even  then  a  regret  would  haunt 
her.  For  she  was  fond  of  Alan  and  she  knew  that.  She 
was  fond  of  him,  but  he  did  not  encompass  her.  She 
felt  equal  to,  or  even  superior  to  him.  She  had  the 
habit  of  him  and  he  had  always  been  good  to  her.  But 
he  was  not  impressive  to  her.  She  looked  upon  him  as 
quite  an  ordinary  man.  Pierpont,  on  the  other  hand, 
impressed  her,  made  her  often  secretly  wonder,  even 
secretly  fear.  And  of  one  thing  she  was  absolutely  cer 
tain,  as  women  can  be  certain  of  things  never  brought  to 
the  test  of  experience;  she  was  absolutely  convinced  that 
if  she  ever  belonged  to  Pierpont  she  would  worship  him. 
And  never,  not  even  when  she  had  believed  herself  to  be 
violently  in  love  with  him,  had  she  felt  just  like  that 
about  Alan. 

The  shadows  of  the  camels  and  of  their  riders  moved 
over  the  radiance  of  the  sands  furtively.  The  great  stars 
glittered  in  the  firmament.  Now  and  then  a  camel  driver 
broke  into  a  melancholy  song.  And  those  three,  who 
knew  each  other  so  well,  and  so  little,  pursued  their  dou 
ble  journey,  of  the  body  and  of  the  soul,  through  the 
night  of  nature  and  the  twilight  of  human  life,  specks  in 
immensity,  yet  each  one  of  them  a  world.  The  chill  of 
the  midnight  touched  them,  and,  presently,  the  different 
chill  of  the  dying  night.  And  the  spell  of  sirocco  went 
with  them. 

In  the  blazing  heat  of  noon  on  the  following  day  they 
were  encamped  far  away  from  any  oasis  or  native  vil 
lage,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  plateau  of  dried  earth  min 
gled  with  chalk,  with  sand-hills  billowing  in  the  distance 
like  waves  of  a  sea  dyed  orange  by  the  flames  of  the  sun. 

And  here,  in  this  desolation,  unknown  to  them,  it  was 
ordained  that  the  drama  in  which  they  were  inrolved 
should  come  to  a  sudden  crisis. 

They  intended  to  rest  all  day,  and  to  continue  their 
journey  by  night.  During  the  morning,  weary  with 
much  riding,  they  slept.  At  midday  they  met  in  the 
shadow  of  an  awning  stretched  before  the  Mortimers' 


54  SNAKE-BITE 

tent  to  have  their  lunch,  followed  by  coffee,  pipes  for  the 
men,  and  a  cigarette  for  Fay. 

Alan  still  looked  ill  and  strangely  self-conscious,  but 
he  professed  to  be  much  better  already,  now  that  they 
were  away  from  the  village.  He  wore  a  forced  air  of 
unnatural  cheerfulness,  and  his  whole  demeanour  was 
that  of  a  man  filled  with  uneasiness  which  he  was  trying 
to  hide.  Warned  by  Fay,  Pierpont  was  on  the  alert  for 
a  change  in  his  friend,  but  it  was  more  marked  than  he 
had  expected.  Before  the  short  meal  was  over  he  felt 
convinced  that  something  which  as  yet  neither  Fay  nor 
he  knew  of  had  occurred  to  startle  Mortimer  out  of  his 
normal  contentment.  Mortimer's  physical  condition  was 
certainly  worse  than  usual,  and  mentally  no  doubt  he 
was  still  unfavourably  influenced  by  sirocco.  Pierpont 
knew  by  his  own  experience  that  people  sometimes  take 
several  days  to  shake  off  entirely  its  evil  spell.  But — 
there  was  something  else.  He  wished  to  think  other 
wise;  he  even  tried  to  force  himself  to  think  otherwise; 
but  his  effort  was  vain.  There  was  a  new  politeness,  a 
creeping  formality  in  Mortimer's  manner  towards  him, 
which  put  intimacy  at  a  distance.  He  found  himself 
"making"  conversation,  wondering  what  to  say  next, 
looking  over  to  Fay  for  help.  Something  horrible,  like 
a  fetid  breath  from  civilised  life,  poisoned  the  air  they 
were  breathing.  Pierpont's  tremendous  self-possession 
seemed  to  tremble  on  its  throne.  He  damned  him 
self  for  a  sirocco-victim,  and  in  that  he  was  justified. 
But  no  amount  of  self -damning  could  do  away  with  his 
conviction  that  Mortimer  had  somehow  got  on  the  track 
of  his  and  Fay's  long  hidden  secret.  And  suddenly  he 
realised,  sitting  there  by  the  tiny  camp-table  on  which 
they  took  their  meals,  and  eating  the  sardines,  the  cous 
cous,  the  bits  of  stewed  mutton,  the  peculiar  impossibility 
of  the  situation  which  Would  be  created  by  Mortimer's 
discovery  of  the  truth.  That  a  man  should  love  another 
man's  wife — there  was  no  novelty  in  that!  But  that 
a  husband  of  Mortimer's  type,  as  Pierpont  knew  by 


SNAKE-BITE  55 

instinct  totally  incapable  of  playing  the  role  of  a  mari 
complaisant,  should  be  forced  by  circumstances  to  live  in 
day  and  night  intimacy  with  his  wife  and  the  man  she 
loved  and  by  whom  she  was  loved,  realising  exactly  how 
matters  were  between  them — there  would  be  a  diabolical 
novelty  in  such  a  situation.  And  such  a  situation  no  in 
nocence  of  body  could  save.  Pierpont  tried  hard  to  trick 
himself  into  the  conviction  that  his  anxiety  was  ground 
less,  was  born  of  sirocco,  but  as  the  meal  progressed  a 
sort  of  desperation  overcame  him.  The  change  in  Mor 
timer's  demeanour  was  too  marked  to  be  misunderstood. 
Here  was  a  usually  natural  man,  a  man  still  like  an  hon 
est,  well-meaning  boy,  a  man,  moreover,  hitherto  openly 
devoted  to  him,  Pierpont,  obviously  playing  a  part.  And 
Mortimer  did  not  act  well.  He  was  too  unaccustomed 
to  acting  to  play  any  role  cleverly. 

The  uneasy  conversation  presently  languished  and  died. 
They  sat  in  a  sombre  silence. 

At  last  the  meal  was  over,  and  Saad  set  the  coffee  be 
fore  them.  The  men  lit  their  pipes,  and  Fay  began  to 
smoke  her  cigarette.  The  heat  of  the  noontide  was  heavy 
upon  them.  The  stones  with  which  the  plateau  on  which 
they  were  camping  was  strewn  glittered  in  the  tre 
mendous  sunshine.  The  heavens  above  them  were  as 
brass.  The  stillness  about  them  was  like  a  living  thing 
waiting  for  some  great  action.  And  the  immense  naked 
ness  of  the  land  for  the  first  time  seemed  to  utter  to 
Pierpont's  soul  an  implacable  condemnation  of  the  decep 
tion  he  had  practised,  of  the  lie  he  had  lived  so  long. 
All  through  a  life  made  easy  by  his  vast  fortune  and  by 
his  powerful  personality,  by  the  self-possession  which 
had  never  yet  failed  him,  and  by  the  will  of  iron  which 
had  upheld  him  and  brought  people  in  obedience  to  do 
what  he  wanted,  he  had  never  been  tormented  by  the 
thing  men  call  conscience,  and  he  had  seldom  indeed  failed 
to  possess  himself  of  any  pleasure,  or  any  passion,  which 
had  tempted  him.  Now  he  suddenly  felt  small,  mean, 
even  almost  fearful.  Yes,  in  the  midst  of  this  fierce 


56  SNAKE-BITE 

heat,  this  blazing  world,  he  felt  the  intimately  cold  touch 
of  fear.  He  sat  staring  into  the  distance  and  wondering 
about  the  future. 

Presently  he  heard  Fay  and  Alan  talking  together. 
They  were  speaking  about  Arabic.  On  the  journey  they 
had  all  been  studying  Arabic,  and  had  amused  themselves 
by  comparing  each  other's  progress.  It  had  been  agreed 
that  Alan  showed  the  most  marked  aptitude  as  a  pupil 
of  Saad's.  He  really  had  what  is  sometimes  called  a 
knack  for  picking  up  a  language  almost  without  know 
ing  how  he  did  it.  Pierpont  now  heard  Fay  speaking. 
She  said : 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  though  I  can  talk  a  little 
I  can't  ever  properly  understand  when  Arabs  talk  to 
gether." 

"I  can  understand,"  said  Alan. 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  the  words,  but  the 
way  in  which  they  were  uttered  struck  forcibly  on  Pier 
pont.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Mortimer  spoke  them  with 
a  sort  of  biting  significance,  and  he  looked  sharply  across 
the  table  and  met  the  young  doctor's  eyes.  They  were 
fixed  upon  him  in  a  stare,  and  seemed  full  of  hostility. 

"Eh?  What  is  it?"  he  said,  jerking  out  the  words 
almost  unconsciously,  forced,  he  felt,  to  ask  those  eyes 
why  they  looked  at  him  like  that. 

Mortimer  looked  away  at  once,  smiling. 

"You  were  in  a  brown  study,  Pierpont." 

"Yes.  I  feel  the  heat  more  than  I  generally  do  to-day. 
I  think  I'll  be  off  to  my  tent  for  a  bit.  Perhaps  I'll  lie 
down  again." 

Without  looking  at  Fay  he  got  up  and  strode  off. 

His  tent  was  pitched  perhaps  a  hundred  feet  away.  He 
went  to  it,  and  sat  down  inside  it  on  his  folding-chair. 
What  had  Mortimer  meant  by  those  words  which  had 
sounded  just  like  a  threat?  He  lit  a  fresh  pipe  and 
pondered  over  the  matter.  Why  should  Mortimer's 
understanding  of  Arabic,  when  spoken  among  themselves 


SNAKE-BITE  57 

by  the  Arabs  of  the  caravan,  have  any  dangerous  signifi 
cance  for  himself  and  Fay? 

After  a  time  he  felt  the  small  enclosed  space  in  the 
tent  to  be  insupportable  to  him.  He  longed  to  get  away 
for  a  little,  to  lose  sight  of  the  encampment,  to  hear  no 
longer  the  occasional  voices  of  his  men,  the  trickle  of  mu 
sic  from  a  vagrant  pipe,  the  snatch  of  a  nasal  song,  the 
grunt  of  a  camel.  The  smallest  sound  or  movement  was 
hateful  to  him  just  then,  seemed  to  paralyse  his  power 
of  thought.  He  got  up,  pulled  off  his  riding  breeches  and 
the  thin  drawers  of  silk  he  wore  beneath  them,  put  on  a 
pair  of  loose  white  trousers  and  a  huge  straw  hat  with 
a  pugaree,  took  his  sun  umbrella  and  smoked  spectacles 
and  stepped  out  of  the  tent.  And  as  he  did  so  he  looked 
towards  the  Mortimer's  tent.  They  were  no  longer 
sitting  under  the  awning.  No  doubt  they  were  lying 
down  inside  the  tent.  Walking  softly,  he  went  away  from 
the  encampment,  going  towards  the  west.  Almost  im 
mediately  he  saw  Saad  following  him.  He  stopped.  The 
Arab  came  up. 

"I  don't  want  you,  Saad,"  he  said.  "I'm  only  going 
a  little  way.  Leave  me  alone." 

"You  will  not  go  very  far,  Sidi  ?" 

"No,  no.  Only  a  few  yards.  I'm  going  to  have  a 
smoke  and  look  out  over  the  desert.  Tell  the  Arabs  no 
one  is  to  come  and  disturb  me." 

"Very  well,  Sidi." 

Pierpont  went  on.  Saad  stood  where  he  was  looking 
after  him. 

In  the  region  where  they  were  now  the  plain  here  and 
there  was  broken  up  by  shallow  gullies,  almost  like  fis 
sures  in  the  earth.  Pierpont  presently  came  to  one  of 
these.  He  looked  back,  saw  the  camp  in  the  distance,  the 
white-robed  figure  of  Saad  at  gaze,  smoke  curling  up  from 
a  fire.  He  waved  a  hand  to  Saad  and  went  down  into 
the  gully.  On  the  side  opposed  to  the  camp  he  found  a 
meagre  mimosa  shrub  growing.  He  stretched  himself 


58  SNAKE-BITE 

at  its  foot,  adjusted  the  sun  umbrella,  and  fell  into 
meditation. 

After  Pierpont  had  left  them  Fay  and  Alan  sat  for  a 
minute  in  silence.  Then  Alan  knocked  out  his  pipe  rather 
violently  against  the  edge  of  the  table,  glanced  side 
ways  at  Fay  and  said : 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Fay?" 

"What  can  one  do  but  rest  here,  or  in  the  tent?" 
she  said. 

"You  won't  go  with  Pierpont?  I'll  bet  you  he  doesn't 
lie  down,  but  goes  out  for  a  stroll  in  the  desert." 

"In  this  heat?    It  would  be  madness." 

"Well,  isn't  Pierpont  a  bit  mad  at  times?" 

"I've  never  noticed  it." 

She  paused.  Then  something  within  her  drove  her  to 
add: 

"What  do  you  mean?  In  what  way  is  Mr.  Pierpont 
mad  or  even  eccentric?" 

"It  isn't  everyone  who'd  ask  a  woman  to  come  on 
such  a  journey  as  this." 

"Why,  you  begged  me  to  come  when  I  refused  to." 

"I  don't  claim  to  be  any  saner  than  Pierpont." 

"It's  not  very  polite  to  me  to  say  that.  Here's  Mah- 
moud  coming  to  clear  away." 

As  she  spoke  she  threw  away  the  end  of  her  cigarette, 
got  up  and  went  into  their  tent,  Alan  lingered  a  moment 
by  the  table.  Fay  heard  him  speaking  in  Arabic  to 
Mahmoud.  He  was  certainly  becoming  quite  fluent  in 
that  angry  language.  She  began  slowly  to  take  off  her 
frock.  What  else  could  she  do  but  lie  down  ?  She  might 
sit  in  a  chair,  but  in  such  heat  it  was  surely  best  to  let 
the  whole  body  repose.  She  slipped  on  a  thin  loose  robe, 
white  and  yellow,  and  looked  at  the  bed.  And  as  she 
looked  at  it  she  saw  the  bedroom  at  Beni  Mora;  she  was 
again  with  Alan  there  on  the  night  when  he  came  to  tell 
her  of  Pierpont's  offer;  she  remembered  her  sleepless 
night.  And  then,  presently,  she  remembered  how  she  had 


SNAKE-BITE  59 

prayed  on  that  other  night  when  she  had  consented  to 
make  the  great  journey.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to 
feel  herself  back  in  Beni  Mora.  But  in  her  whole  body, 
as  well  as  in  her  brain,  she  was  conscious  of  the  central 
depths  of  the  Sahara,  of  the  irrevocable  distances  that 
must  be  traversed  slowly,  painfully,  before  that  body  and 
soul  of  hers  could  be  either  again  in  Beni  Mora  or  in 
Tombouctou.  Innumerable  days  or  nights  on  camel  back 
must  be  endured  before  she  could  be  free  from  the  Sa 
hara,  could  escape  from  these  human  beings  who  were 
with  her,  fellow  prisoners  in  the  great  freedom,  chained 
together  in  immensity. 

She  heard  Alan  whistling  outside.  He  was  trying  to 
whistle  an  Arab  melody,  and,  of  course,  failing  in  the 
effort.  He  broke  off  and  tried  again.  Fay  went  to  her 
bed  and  lay  down.  And  the  sirocco  seemed  to  lie  down 
on  the  bed  with  her,  as  if  it  had  crept  after  her  from 
Insalah  without  her  knowing  it.  Waves  of  sirocco 
seemed  to  flow  over  her,  hot,  heavy  waves,  carrying  her 
blindly  somewhere  as  a  great  flood  carries  a  corpse. 
Alan's  ugly  whistling  drew  a  little  nearer  and  stopped  at 
the  tent  door.  She  looked.  As  she  looked  he  stepped  in, 
turned  with  his  back  to  her,  and  seemed  to  be  peeping  at 
something.  For  his  thin  body  was  bent  for  a  moment, 
and  his  head  was  thrust  forward. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  she  asked. 

Putting  one  hand  behind  him  he  made  a  gesture  which 
seemed  to  mean  "Hush !"  She  was  silent.  Presently  he 
turned  round. 

"It's  as  I  thought.  Pierpont  has  gone  off  alone  into 
the  desert." 

"Why  shouldn't  he?  There's  nothing  very  odd  in 
that,"  she  said,  with  nervous  irritation. 

"No.  But  it's  odd  that  I  knew  he  was  going  to  do 
it." 

He  pulled  off  his  coat,  threw  it  on  the  ground  and 
rolled  up  his  shirt-sleeves.  His  arms  were  red-brown. 
He  had  no  waistcoat  on  and  the  thinness  of  his  body  was 


60  SNAKE-BITE 

very  apparent.  He  was  as  lean  as  a  panther.  He  caught 
hold  of  a  chair,  pulled  it  to  the  side  of  Fay's  bed,  and 
sat  down  facing  her.  She  felt  half  afraid  of  him.  She 
did  not  know  what  he  was  going  to  do  or  say,  but  she 
knew  he  was  going  to  do  or  say  something  exceptional. 
She  also  felt  afraid  of  herself.  She  knew  quite  well  that 
she  was  not  normal,  that  she  was  swayed  by  an  influence 
of  nature.  She  might  have  the  sense  to  struggle  against 
this  influence,  since  she  was  almost  sharply  aware  of  it. 
But  on  the  other  hand  she  might  find  herself  powerless 
to  do  so. 

"I  told  you  just  now  I  can  understand  Arabic  when 
the  Arabs  talk  it  among  themselves/'  Alan  said  slowly. 

"I  wish  I  could.  That's  the  only  way  to  get  to  know 
the  Arabs,"  said  Fay. 

"Yes.    They're  a  bad-tongued  race." 

"I've  always  heard  that.    Mr.  Pierpont  thinks  so  too." 

"They're  tremendous  gossips." 

"I  suppose  they  are." 

"Just  before  the  sirocco  came  I  heard  two  of  them 
gossiping,  Saad  and  Mahmoud.  It  was  quite  by  chance. 
It  was  the  night  before  we  got  to  Insalah,  when  we  were 
at  the  oasis  of  Foggaret  el  Zoua." 

He  leaned  forward  and  laid  one  of  his  red-brown  hands 
on  the  bed.  Fay  noticed  that  the  fingers  of  it  were 
clenched. 

"I  got  up  that  night  when  you  were  asleep.  I  had 
insomnia." 

"You  never  told  me  of  it." 

"No.  The  tent  seemed  a  prison.  I  put  on  a  burnous 
and  went  out.  I  went  a  little  way  and  sat  down  on  the 
ground.  I  happened  to  sit  close  to  the  tent  where  Saad 
and  Mahmoud  were  sleeping.  At  least  not  sleeping — they 
were  talking,  and  I  smelt  keef .  What  do  you  think  they 
were  talking  about?" 

His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  and  looked  quite  unlike 
Alan's. 

"What?"  she  asked  unwillingly. 


SNAKE-BITE  61 

"You." 

Fay  lay  still  for  a  minute.  One  of  her  hands  had  lain 
near  Alan's.  She  drew  it  softly  away  and  covered  it 
with  a  fold  of  her  gown.  Then,  slightly  sticking  out  her 
chin  and  with  her  obstinate  look,  she  asked : 

"What  did  they  say  about  me  ?" 

Alan's  hand  quivered  on  the  bed. 

"They  said,  that  is  Saad  said — they  talked  about  us 
all,  not  only  you — that  Pierpont  had  only  asked  me  to 
make  this  journey  because  he  wanted  you  to  go." 

"Silly !"  Fay  formed  with  her  lips. 

"Saad  ben  Youssef  was  telling  Mahmoud,  evidently  for 
the  first  time.  I  should  think  he  was  under  the  influ 
ence  of  keef.  He  coughed  several  times,  as  keef  smokers 
do." 

"Keef -mad !"  Fay  formed  with  her  lips. 

She  longed  to  push  the  sirocco  from  her.  It  lay  so 
close  to  her;  it  embraced  her;  she  felt  in  its  arms. 

"He  said  several  very  odd  things — odd  to  be  invented, 
I  mean.  He  said  to  Mahmoud  that  Pierpont  told  you 
about  the  journey  before  he  told  me,  that  he  asked  you 
to  go  before  he  asked  me." 

Fay  shrugged  her  shoulders  against  the  big  pillow. 
They  made  a  dry  little  noise. 

"He  declared  that  all  your  hesitation  about  going  was 
a  piece  of  acting,  that  you  had  promised  to  go  from  the 
beginning  and  had  always  meant  to  go." 

"What  liars  Arabs  are!"  Fay  managed  to  whisper. 

"He  said" — Alan's  voice  went  up  a  little — "you  and 
Pierpont  loved  one  another — loved  one  another!  Just 
imagine !  He  said  that  I  knew  it,  but  that  Pierpont  had 
offered  me  such  a  huge  sum  of  money  to  come,  that,  of 
course,  I  couldn't  refuse  it.  He  actually  said  that  of 


me." 


And  Alan's  body  shook  in  the  chair,  as  if  with  sup 
pressed  laughter. 

"I  take  Pierpont's  money — I  take — for  such  a  reason ! 


62  SNAKE-BITE 

By  God,  Fay,  how  is  one  to  help  laughing  at  these 
devils?" 

And  his  body  shook  more  violently,  though  his  lips 
were  not  even  smiling. 

"What  it  must  be  to  have  such  filthy  imaginations!" 

Fay  lay  quite  still  and  said  nothing.  She  felt  oddly 
vague.  It  had  come — the  blow.  Whether  Alan  believed 
what  the  Arab  had  said  or  not,  she  felt  sure  that  he 
would  never  again  be  with  Pierpont  as  he  had  been,  open- 
hearted,  admiring,  an  enthusiastic  friend;  whether  he 
believed  or  not  he  would  always  have  moments  of  doubt 
fulness  about  Pierpont  and  her.  She  knew  that  by  the 
look  in  her  husband's  eyes.  And  yet,  for  the  moment, 
she  only  felt  vague.  She  stretched  her  thin  body  slightly 
and  sighed. 

"Well?"  said  Alan. 

He  was  always  staring  at  her,  was  devouring  her  with 
his  eyes. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

He  leaned  forward,  pressing  his  clenched  hand  on  the 
bed.  The  veins  stood  out  on  his  bare  arm  and  looked 
violent. 

"Isn't  it  pretty  bad  to  have  such  a  thing  said  of  you  as 
that,  and  not  to  be  able  to  do  anything?  I  couldn't  go 
into  the  tent  and  thrash  Saad.  He's  Pierpont's  servant, 
and,  besides,  we  depend  absolutely  on  him  for  every 
thing.  If  anything  were  to  happen — if  he  were  to  leave 
us  we  should  be  in  great  difficulties." 

"What  does  it  matter  what  an  Arab  says?  You  and 
I  know  it's  a  lie.  Isn't  that  enough?" 

"Why  d'you  speak  like  that?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"In — in  such  a it  scarcely  sounded  like  your 

voice." 

She  turned  uneasily  on  the  bed. 

"It's  so  hot,  and  so  terribly  still.  I  don't  feel  like  my 
self  to-day." 

"I  hate  the  desert!"  he  exclaimed,  with  sudden  bitter 


SNAKE-BITE  63 

violence.  "I  wish  to  God  we  had  never  come  on  this 
journey.  Whatever  happens,  it  will  be  months  before 
we  get  to  the  end  of  it.  Even  if  we  turned  back  now  it 
would  be  weeks  before  we  could  reach  Beni  Mora." 

"Turned  back?" 

"Yes,  you  and  I." 

"How  could  we  possibly  do  such  a  thing  without  a 
reason?" 

"D'you  think  I  can  enjoy  travelling  on  for  months, 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  beasts  who  think — think-- " 

"Arabs!"  she  said. 

"Fay!" 

"Yes." 

"When  I  told  you  you  didn't  seem  surprised." 

"Nothing  they  could  say  could  surprise  me." 

"But  don't  you  mind  its  being  said  ?" 

"It's  disagreeable,  of  course." 

She  was  trying  to  struggle  against  a  growing  morbid 
desire  to  give  in  to  circumstances,  to  put  her  two  hands 
in  the  hands  of  Fate  and  let  herself  be  taken  unresisting 
even  to  perdition.  Just  then  the  one  thing  which  she  felt 
she  could  not  do  was  to  go  on  acting,  lying,  dodging 
things,  being  subtle,  trying  for  self-preservation.  She 
was  possessed  of  a  desire,  almost  voluptuous,  to  go  with 
the  tide,  like  a  twig  borne  along  on  a  wave  of  the  ocean. 
She  remembered,  of  course,  Pierpont's  warning.  No 
doubt  he  was  right.  These  moods  of  sirocco  would  pass. 
But  what  did  it  matter?  Since  Pierpont  had  spoken  of 
this  love  of  theirs  it  seemed  to  her  to  have  a  different 
character,  to  demand  different  conduct  on  her  part  and 
his.  Their  deception  seemed  to  her  far  greater,  far 
more  deplorable  even,  in  this  region,  far  more  ridicu 
lous  and  useless,  now  that  they  had  been  frank  with  each 
other. 

She  raised  herself  on  one  arm  with  a  hand  under  her 
cheek  and  looked  steadily  at  her  husband. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  exactly  why  I  came  on  this  journey?" 
she  said,  in  a  louder,  harder  voice. 


64  SNAKE-BITE 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "Tell  me." 

"It  wasn't  because  Mr.  Pierpont  was  determined  we 
should  go  with  him." 

"Why  was  he  so  determined  ?" 

She  ignored  his  question. 

"It  wasn't  because  you  wanted  so  much  to  go  and 
tried  so  hard  to  persuade  me." 

"I  did  try.  But  you  said  afterwards  you  had  been 
longing  to  go  all  the  time." 

"Alan,  it  was  because  you  could  have  gone  without 


me." 


"I!" 

He  straightened  himself  up  abruptly. 

"How  can  you  say  that?" 

"I  say  it  because  it's  true." 

"But  I  absolutely  refused " 

"You  could  have  gone.  Don't  let  us  discuss  it.  I 
know  it.  I  knew  it  when  I  asked  you  on  the  terrace 
at  Beni  Mora  that  night,  'Do  you  absolutely  refuse  to  go 
without  me?'  You  hesitated  before  you  answered.  A 
hesitation  like  that  tells  a  woman  everything — every 
thing.  From  that  moment  I  decided  I  would  make  this 
journey." 

Alan  was  silent  for  a  minute.  His  face  looked  drawn, 
and  his  eyes  were  fierce,  and  seemed  to  be  gazing  in 
ward,  as  if  he  were  searching  himself.  At  last  he  said : 

"Why  did  you  refuse  to  come  before?" 

"I  had  a  reason." 

"What  was  it?" 

She  hesitated,  trying  to  struggle  with  sirocco. 

"Never  mind  what  it  was." 

"You  shall  tell  me.  You  always  wanted  to  come.  I 
asked  you  to  come.  Then  why  did  you  try  to  avoid 
it?" 

"I  thought  it  would  be  unwise  for  me  to  travel  so 
far." 


SNAKE-BITE  65 

In  spite  of  the  marvellous  dryness  of  the  heat  which 
enclosed  them  sweat  burst  out  on  his  face. 

"Did  Pierpont  speak  to  you  about  making  the  journey 
before  he  spoke  to  me?" 

Fay  twisted  her  lips  into  a  sort  of  smile. 

"Do  you  believe  Arabs  then?'' 

"I  didn't  believe  them  till  we  were  at  Insalah  and 
sirocco  came." 

"Ah !"  she  said,  on  a  long  breath.    "The  sirocco  came." 

"Then  I  began  to  think  things  over.  I  felt  horribly 
ill.  I  thought,  'Suppose  I  were  to  die  on  this  journey 
and  what  Saad  told  Mahmoud  about  Fay  and  Pierpont 
were  true/  Is  it  true?  Is  it  true?" 

An  almost  fierce  desire  came  to  Fay  to  cry  out,  "It  is 
true!"  But  she  resisted  it  with  all  her  remaining  force. 
She  let  her  arm  drop  and  her  head  fall  on  the  pillow. 
Still  twisting  her  lips  in  the  little  smile,  he  said : 

"If  you  believe  what  Arabs  say  you  will  believe  any 
thing.  You  might  even  believe  me  if  I  said  it  is  true." 

She  shut  her  eyes. 

"Now  do  let  me  rest,"  she  murmured.  "It's  so  terri 
bly  hot." 

There  was  a  silence.    Then  she  heard  him  say : 

"I'm  going  to  Pierpont." 

And  she  heard  him  go  out  of  the  tent. 

When  Alan  was  outside  the  tent  and  had  walked  a 
few  steps  he  stood  for  a  moment  motionless.  He  was 
still  bathed  in  sweat.  All  his  body  was  damp.  He  had 
a  strange  dual  sensation :  he  felt  both  dull  and  violent. 
Saad  ben  Youssef  was  no  longer  standing  at  gaze.  He 
had  gone  into  the  cook's  tent,  and  was  squatting  there 
with  the  Arabs,  engaged  in  one  of  those  violent  and 
interminable  conversations  which  alternate  with  the  long 
and  profound  silences  of  the  men  of  the  East.  The 
hobbled  camels  were  resting  and  eating  their  fodder  with 
sideways  moving  mouths.  The  desert  stretched  around 
empty  under  the  blaze  of  the  sun.  Nothing  moved  in 


66  SNAKE-BITE 

the  vast  expanse,  no  figure  of  man,  no  body  of  animal 
or  of  bird.    Where  was  Pierpont? 

Alan  had  seen  him  start  and  knew  in  what  direction 
he  had  gone.  After  his  pause,  almost  mechanically  Alan 
followed  in  that  direction  and  presently  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  shallow  gully  in  which  Pierpont  was  lying. 
He  struck  the  gully  at  some  distance  from  Pierpont, 
who  was  turned  from  him  and  looking  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  that  by  which  he  approached.  Pierpont 
was  now  stretched  out  at  full  length  by  the  mimosa 
shrub.  His  trousers  had  got  rucked  up  and  Alan  could 
see  some  of  the  bare  brown  skin  of  his  great  legs  ex 
posed  to  the  sun  as  he  lay.  His  socks  had  fallen  down 
nearly  to  his  ankles.  There  was  a  look  of  disorder  in 
his  presence  which  was  unusual,  for,  as  a  rule,  without 
being  at  all  a  dandy,  he  was  particular  about  his  clothes 
and  was  always  perfectly  neat.  Walking  in  the  bottom 
of  the  gully  Alan  approached  him  slowly.  The  heat 
seemed  even  greater  in  this  depression  of  the  ground. 
The  earth  seemed  to  shimmer  with  heat.  Far  off  those 
mysterious  vapours  out  of  which  the  mirage  arises  lifted 
themselves  like  smoke  from  the  tawny  waste,  and  the 
orange-coloured  crests  of  the  sand-hills  gleamed  under 
the  flames  of  the  sun. 

When  Alan  was  quite  near  to  Pierpont  his  foot  shifted 
on  a  loose  stone;  the  latter  heard  the  noise,  lifted  himself 
and  looked  round. 

"Hullo,  Mortimer/'  he  said,  in  his  harsh,  very  in 
dividual  voice.  "Come  to  sit  with  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"How  did  you  find  me?" 

"I  saw  you  start  from  our  tent." 

"The  tent  was  hot  and  I  felt  a  bit  restless." 

"The  sirocco  seems  to  have  waked  us  all  up." 

"Waked  us  up!   Did  we  need  that?'' 

"I  can  only  answer  for  myself." 

He  sat  down  near  to  Pierpont,  but  not  close  to  him, 
and  a  little  above  him.  In  his  hand  he  had  a  rough 


SNAKE-BITE  67 

stick  such  as  the  Arabs  often  carry.  He  never  felt  at 
ease  when  walking  unless  he  carried  something.  He  held 
this  stick  across  his  knees  now  as  he  sat,  bending  a  little 
forward. 

"Perhaps  I  did  need  waking  up/'  he  added. 

"I  can't  say  I'd  noticed  any  peculiar  sluggishness  in 
you." 

"I've  been  having  a  talk  with  my  wife." 

"She's  lying  down?" 

"Yes." 

"I  think  we're  all  rather  done  up  to-day,  in  spite  of 
what  you  say.  A  sirocco  like  that  at  Insalah  really  plays 
the  devil  both  with  body  and  mind.  We  shall  want  a  few 
days  to  recover  our  balance,  to  get  back  our  usual  spirits. 
I  noticed  at  lunch  that  we  were  all  rather  flattened  out. 
But  in  a  journey  like  this  there  must  be  such  moments  I 
suppose." 

"Why  have  you  come  out  here?" 

"For  something  to  do." 

"But  why  come  away  from  the  camp  to  a  place  where 
you  see  nothing?  As  you're  lying  you  can  see  nothing 
except  the  gully." 

"This  mimosa  attracted  me.  Even  a  shrub  like  this 
means  a  lot  in  the  midst  of  such  a  desert  as  we're  in  just 


"What  were  you  thinking  about  when  I  came  up  ?" 

"I  believe  I  was  half  asleep." 

"Oh,  no,  you  weren't." 

"Then  you  know  more  about  me  than  I  do  about  my 
self?" 

"I  know  more  than  I  did  a  very  few  minutes  ago." 

Instantly  it  flashed  into  Pierpont's  mind  that  Fay  had 
madly  yielded  to  the  sirocco-impulse  of  which  she  had 
spoken  to  him  in  the  oasis  at  Insalah.  He  remembered 
her  words,  "I  could  almost  go  now  and  tell  him."  He 
lay  very  still,  and  his  long  determined  face  did  not 
change. 


68  SNAKE-BITE 

"Friendship  ought  to  be  based  on  knowledge,"  he 
said  carelessly. 

Alan  pulled  his  broad-brimmed  panama  hat  down  on 
his  wet  forehead. 

"I  want  to  know  something.  I  want  to  know  why  you 
asked  my  wife  if  she  would  come  on  this  journey  before 
you  asked  me  if  I  would  come." 

"I  didn't." 

"I've  heard  that  you  did." 

"She  has  told  him,"  thought  Pierpont. 

"The  fact  remains.     I  didn't." 

As  he  reiterated  the  lie  he  had  a  sensation  of  fighting 
with  the  woman  he  loved. 

"I  did  not  tell  your  wife  first." 

His  voice  was  imperative  and  ugly  in  its  harshness. 

"Every  Arab  in  the  camp  knows  you  did !"  said  Alan 
violently. 

And  he  broke  into  a  desperate  fit  of  coughing. 

Pierpont  was  conscious  of  an  immense  feeling  of  re 
lief.  He  realised  that  he  had  nearly  fallen  into  a  trap. 

"Ah !"  he  exclaimed,  with  contempt.  "So  you've  actu 
ally  been  talcing  vile  Arab  gossip  for  truth!  You've 
overheard  some  camp  slander  and  you've  believed  it.  If 
you  hadn't  told  me  yourself " 

"I  haven't  told  you !"  Alan  interrupted. 

"But  it  is  as  I  say.  If  not,  deny  it!  Who  else  could 
have  said  such  a  thing?" 

"My  wife  might  have  said  it." 

"Your  wife!    Are  you  crazy,  Mortimer?" 

Pierpont  was  lying  on  his  right  side  leaning  on  his 
right  arm.  He  had  not  changed  his  position  during  their 
conversation.  Just  behind  him  in  the  hard  earth  of  the 
gully  there  was  a  large  crack  or  rent,  which  Alan  looked 
down  on  but  which  was  invisible  to  Pierpont.  At  this 
moment,  while  Pierpont  was  in  the  act  of  saying  his  last 
words,  something  attracted  Alan's  eyes  to  this  rent  in 
the  ground.  He  looked.  Surely  he  had  half  seen  some 
thing  move  for  an  instant.  He  was  just  beginning  to 


SNAKE-BITE  69 

wonder  what  it  had  been  when  he  perceived  the  head 
of  a  grey  snake  pushed  out  of  the  crack  not  far  from 
Pierpont's  left  leg.  On  the  head,  above  a  broad  snout 
and  a  pair  of  small  eyes  with  vertical  pupils,  were  two 
straight  horns.  This  head  remained  out  as  if  the  snake 
were  watching  or  listening  to  something.  It  looked  sur 
reptitious,  intent,  and  strangely  mental.  Alan  was  fas 
cinated  by  it 

Before  coming  on  this  great  journey  he  had  naturally 
made  certain  medical  preparations.  He  was  engaged  to 
accompany  the  expedition  as  a  doctor,  and  it  was  his 
business  to  be  ready  to  deal  with  any  medical  or  surgical 
emergency  which  was  likely  to  arise.  He  had  made  in 
quiries  as  to  the  special  dangers  of  the  region  they  were 
about  to  traverse.  Among  them  one  of  the  first  which 
had  been  mentioned  to  him  had  been  the  danger  of  snake 
bite.  He  knew  that  the  cerastes  cornutus,  or  horned 
viper,  was  one  of  the  deadliest  snakes  in  existence,  and 
that  certain  regions  of  the  Sahara  were  infested  by  it 
He  had  in  his  medicine-chest,  safely  locked  away,  a  cej*7 
tain  serum,  first  produced  by  Calmette,  which  was  anti- 
venomous,  and  which,  if  injected  at  once  into  the  body 
of  one  bitten  by  the  horned  viper,  in  combination  with 
injections  of  permanganate  of  potash,  would  almost  cer 
tainly  save  the  sufferer  from  death.  Now  for  the  first 
time  he  looked  upon  this  enemy  of  the  desert,  and  was 
surprised  by  the  smallness  of  a  reptile  which  contained  the 
power  to  slay  a  man.  And  he  looked,  too,  upon  the  man 
whom  he  had  thought  of  as  his  friend,  but  whom  he 
now  thought  of  as  his  deadliest  enemy. 

"Are  you  crazy,  Mortimer?"  repeated  Pierpont,  with 
a  sort  of  almost  fierce  defiance.  "Has  your  ill-health 
shaken  your  mind  ?" 

The  horned  viper  shifted  very  surreptitiously  a  little 
nearer  to  Pierpont,  upon  whom  it  seemed  to  have  con 
centrated  its  attention.  Alan's  hands  closed  mechanically 
upon  the  long  stick  which  he  had  been  holding  lightly 
across  his  knees. 


70  SNAKE-BITE 

"My  ill-health!"  he  said.    "Who  says  I'm  ill?" 

The  horned  viper  paused,  then  crept  on  its  white  belly 
an  inch  or  two  closer  to  Pierpont.  The  whole  of  it  had 
now  emerged  from  the  rent,  and  Alan  could  see  that 
the  tip  of  its  tail  was  black.  Behind  its  staring,  vertical 
eyes  were  two  streaks,  dark  and  oblique.  Its  little  straight 
horns  were  like  two  menaces  and  suggested  a  mind  wary 
and  acute,  a  soul  implacable  in  its  evil.  The  whole  of 
the  reptile  looked  intense.  In  intensity  at  that  moment 
Alan  was  own  brother  to  it 

"Are  you  counting  on  my  ill-health?"  he  continued 
slowly,  and  with  a  sinister  emphasis.  "But  what  would 
you  do  in  the  desert  without  a  doctor?  You  were  so 
determined  to  have  a  doctor." 

"You  aren't  well,  you  aren't  yourself,  or  you  couldn't 
possibly  talk  like  this.  If  I  didn't  see  what  your  con 
dition  is,  do  you  think  I  would  put  up  with  such  an 
abominable  insinuation  as  you  have  just  made?  You 
ought  to  know  me  too  well " 

"But  if  all  this  time  I  haven't  known  you  at  all !"  Alan 
interrupted  quietly. 

He  was  able  to  bridle  his  violence  now  because  he  had 
suddenly  been  filled  with  a  sense  of  immense,  almost 
of  exuberant  power. 

"And  what  could  you  do  out  here,  whatever  I  said,  or 
did?  How  could  you  get  rid  of  me?  How  can  we 
separate  ?  We  are  tied  up  beyond  hope  of  getting  loose 
from  one  another.  Besides  that  you  depend  on  me." 

A  sudden  red  rose  in  Pierpont's  lean  cheeks. 

"Depend  on  you!  What  the  devil  d'you  mean  by 
that?" 

"Simply  that  there's  no  other  doctor  within  a  good 
many  miles." 

And  Alan  laughed ;  but  his  eyes  were  intent.  For  the 
viper  had  moved  noiselessly  along  the  hot  earth  and  was 
now  close  to  Pierpont's  leg. 

"And  you  made  such  a  point  in  Beni  Mora  of  the  ab 
solute  necessity  of  having  a  doctor  always  with  you. 


SNAKE-BITE  71 

Both  my  wife  and  I  remarked  that  you  were — shall  we 
say  exceedingly  careful  in  regard  to  your  health?" 

"D'you  mean  to  imply  that  I'm  a  physical  coward  ?" 

"No;  only  that  you  take  great  care  of  yourself." 

"You're  offensive,  Mortimer." 

The  viper  crept  forward  and  rested  its  head  on  a 
rucked-up  fold  of  Pierpont's  trousers,  just  above  his  bare 
leg.  He  noticed  nothing,  but  Alan  held  his  breath  and 
his  two  hands  strained  themselves  round  his  stick.  The 
natural  impulse  to  kill  a  noxious  reptile  was  strong  in  the 
doctor,  but  a  stronger,  overpowering  impulse  held  him 
back.  The  desire  to  know  dominated  him.  His  wife 
had  evaded  him.  Pierpont  had  probably,  indeed  almost 
certainly,  lied  to  him.  There  was  something  concealed 
from  him  by  them  both.  Of  that  he  felt  positive.  Fate 
had,  perhaps,  brought  to  him  out  of  the  bowels  of  the 
desert  a  means  to  force  the  exact  truth  from  these  hu 
man  beings  who  possessed  the  devilish  power  to  with 
hold  it  from  him — for  ever  if  they  would.  Could  he 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  destroy  the  weapon  given  to  his 
hand  before  it  had  struck? 

"You're  damnably  offensive.  But  I  put  it  down  to 
your  condition." 

"There  you  make  a  big  mistake.  I  feel  ever  so  much 
better  already  than  I  did  at  Insalah.  I  shall  be  quite  fit 
to  look  after  my  wife  till  this  journey  is  ended,  never 
fear." 

The  viper  raised  its  head,  slipped  forward  and  poised 
itself  above  Pierpont's  bare  leg,  slightly  quivering. 

"Strike!"  something  in  Alan  said.  "Strike,  you  foul 
thing!  Strike!" 

As  if  it  had  heard  the  injunction  the  reptile  again 
slipped  forward  and  dropped  upon  Pierpont's  bare  leg. 

"What  the  devil "  he  exclaimed  in  a  loud,  startled 

voice. 

He  made  an  abrupt  and  violent  movement. 

"Ah!"  he  cried  out. 

The  horned  viper  had  bitten  him. 


72  SNAKE-BITE 

Alan  sprang  to  his  feet,  gripped  his  stick,  and  in  an  in 
stant  had  killed  the  snake.  He  turned  it  over  with  his 
foot,  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  with  an  indescribable  ex 
pression,  then  kicked  it  violently  away  from  him. 

"It's  a  cerastes  cornutus"  he  said  to  Pierpont 

The  two  men  were  now  standing  close  together  at  the 
bottom  of  the  gully.  Pierpont  looked  hard  into  the 
doctor's  eyes. 

"You  knew  it  was  there !"  he  said.  "You  knew  when 
you  said  that  I  depended  on  you." 

Alan  faced  him  in  silence.  Pierpont  thrust  his  hand 
into  his  pocket,  pulled  out  a  silk  handkerchief,  bent 
down  and  tied  it  tightly  round  his  leg  just  above  the 
bite. 

"I  must  get  to  the  camp,"  he  said,  lifting  himself  up. 

He  did  not  show  any  sign  of  pain. 

"Of  course  you've  brought  anti-venomous  serum  with 
you,"  he  added. 

Alan  made  no  reply.  Without  another  word  Pierpont 
set  out  for  the  camp.  Alan  followed  him  up  the  side  of 
the  gully.  In  the  distance  the  camp  was  visible,  the 
tents,  the  hobbled  beasts,  smoke  curling  up  to  the  blaze 
of  the  sun,  and  one  figure,  a  woman's,  standing  at  the 
opening  of  a  tent  motionless,  gazing  out  over  the  desert. 
When  he  saw  that  figure  Pierpont  stopped. 

"You  can  save  me,  can't  you  ?"  he  said  to  the  doctor. 

"I  suppose  I  could." 

"Are  you  going  to  save  me?" 

"That  depends  on  you.  You've  lied  to  me.  Now  you 
must  tell  me  the  truth." 

After  a  pause,  Pierpont  said : 

"I  have  told  you  the  truth." 

"If  you  don't  tell  me,"  said  Alan,  pointing  to  the 
distant  figure  by  the  tent,  "she  shall." 

"She  can  only  say  what  I  have  said.  You  must  be  mad 
to  believe  Arabs." 

"I  feel  that  she  and  you  are  trying  to  deceive  me.  I 
know  it." 


SNAKE-BITE  73 

"You  mean  the  sirocco  has  told  you  a  lie." 

"We'll  soon  prove  that.  When  we  get  to  camp  go  to 
your  tent  without  a  word  to  her.  If  you  say  a  word  of 
all  this  I  swear  I'll  let  you  die." 

Pierpont  looked  at  him  in  silence.  Then  he  walked 
slowly  onward.  He  began  to  limp  slightly  and  leaned 
on  his  stick.  Alan  kept  beside  him  and  did  not  speak 
again  till  they  were  close  to  the  camp.  Then  Alan  said : 

"Remember;  not  a  word  of  what  has  happened,  or 
of  what  we've  said,  to  her,  or  I'll  let  you  die.  If  it's 
murder,  I  don't  care.  I've  got  to  know  the  truth." 

"You  do  know  it." 

"If  she  backs  you  up,  after  I've  done  with  her,  per 
haps  I'll  believe  what  you've  said.  Go  to  your  tent  and 
lie  down.  Don't  say  a  word  to  the  Arabs.  I'll  come  to 
you  very  soon." 

As  they  reached  the  camp  Pierpont  was  limping  no 
longer.  Fay,  who  was  still  at  the  tent  door,  looked  at 
them  with  a  curious,  almost  sullen  expression.  Pier 
pont  took  off  his  hat  with  a  smile. 

"The  heat  out  there  was  too  great.  I'm  going  in  to 
lie  down  for  a  little,"  he  said. 

He  turned  and  walked  into  his  tent,  still  without  limp 
ing. 

"Whatever  he  is  he's  a  sportsman!" 

That  thought  went  through  Alan's  mind  almost  against 
his  will.  Then  he  turned  to  Fay. 

"Come  into  the  tent,  will  you,  Fay  ?"  he  said.  "There's 
something  I  want  to  tell  you,  something  I  want  you  to 
tell  me.  And  we  haven't  much  time." 

"Not  much  time !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Surely  we've 
almost  unlimited  time  at  our  disposal  out  here." 

"No,  we  haven't.     Come  in." 

She  looked  at  him,  then  followed  him  into  the  tent. 

"Sit  down  on  the  bed,  Fay,"  he  said. 
She  sat  on  the  side  of  her  camp  bed.     He  sat  down 
on  his  with  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets.    They 


74  SNAKE-BITE 

were  clenched,  but  Fay  could  not  see  that,  and  his  face 
was  much  calmer  in  expression  than  when  he  had  left 
her  to  follow  Pierpont. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  and  whatever  I  say  don't  cry 
out." 

"Cry  out !"  she  said,  startled. 

"Yes.    We've  got  to  keep  this  from  the  Arabs." 

"Go  on!"  she  whispered. 

He  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other  and  stared  out 
through  the  tent  door. 

"If  I  choose  it,"  he  said,  "in  a  very  few  hours  Pier 
pont  will  be  a  dead  man.  Sit  down !" 

She  sat  down  again.     She  was  trembling  slightly. 

"Why  d'you  say  such — such  a  cruel  thing?  It's  hor 
ribly  unmanly  to  try  to  frighten  a  woman." 

"It's  the  truth.  Just  now  in  the  gully  Pierpont  was 
bitten  in  the  leg  by  a  horned  viper." 

"Ah !"  she  cried,  again  starting  up.  "And  you,  a  doc 
tor,  sit  here !" 

She  caught  hold  of  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  her  hand 
seemed  made  of  iron. 

"Go  and  save  him.  You  have  the  power,  haven't  you  ? 
You've  got  something  against  snake-bite !" 

"Whether  I  save  him  or  let  him  die  depends  on  you." 

She  gripped  him  more  fiercely. 

"Then  you'll  save  him!" 

"Do  you  love  him  ?" 

She  gazed  at  him,  trying  to  read  in  his  eyes  what  she 
had  to  say  for  the  saving  of  Pierpont's  life. 

"He's  our  friend.  You  are  here  as  his  doctor.  If  you 
let  him  die  you  are  a  murderer." 

"Do  you  love  him,  Fay  ?" 

She  was  silent,  still  holding  his  shoulder. 

"He's  waiting !"  said  Alan. 

"As  a  friend  I  think  I  do  love  him." 

"Do  you  love  him  as  a  woman  loves  a  man?  Do  you 
love  him  as  you  once  thought  you  loved  me?" 

She  said  nothing. 


SNAKE-BITE  75 

"Was  that  the  reason  why  you  refused  for  so  long  to 
come  on  this  journey?" 

Gazing  at  him  and  holding  him  fast  she  made — so  it 
seemed  to  her — a  supreme  effort  to  read  what  was  in  his 
soul.  Never  before  had  she  so  longed  to  speak  the  plain 
truth  to  a  human  being.  But  Pierpont's  life  hung  on 
her  action.  How  could  she  dare  to  speak  it  ? 

At  last  she  said :  "Mr.  Pierpont  doesn't  love  me.  I'm 
quite  sure  of  that,  though  I  think  he  does  care  for  me, 
and  I  know  he  respects  me.  I'm  fond  of  him  as  a  friend. 
I  acknowledge  it.  But  if  I  hated  him,  and  he  died  by 
your  wilful  neglect  of  him,  when  I  saw  him  dead  I  should 
hate  you  much  more.  I  should  hate  you  as  I  never 
thought  I  could  hate  any  human  being." 

Her  grasp  of  him  relaxed.  In  the  sudden  softness  of 
her  hand  he  seemed  to  feel  hatred. 

"Now  go  and  save  him !"  she  said. 

She  took  away  her  hand.     Alan  got  up. 

"I'll  get  the  remedies,"  he  said  in  a  husky  voice. 

And  he  turned  to  go  out  to  the  place  where  their  lug 
gage  was  heaped  beside  the  lying  camels.  As  Fay 
watched  him  moving  she  knew  he  would  do  what  he  said ; 
she  knew  he  was  going  to  save  the  life  of  Pierpont.  And 
as  that  knowledge  came  to  her  there  came  to  her  with  it 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  moral  degradation.  Alan 
hadn't  loved  her  quite  enough.  Otherwise  she  would  not 
have  come  on  the  great  journey.  But  in  his  way,  the 
way  that  was  possible  to  him,  Alan  had  loved  her.  Sud 
denly  she  felt  a  stern  necessity  to  rise  up  to  the  best  that 
was  possible  to  her,  and  she  felt  also  a  stern  necessity  to 
see  Alan  rise  up  to  the  best  that  was  possible  to  him. 

"Alan !"  she  called  out.  "Come  here !  There's  some 
thing  more  I  must  say." 

He  came  and  stood  in  the  tent  door. 

"Alan,  I  have  told  you  a  lie.  I  do  love  Horace  Pier 
pont,  and  he  loves  me.  We  both  knew  it  at  Beni  Mora. 
We  never  spoke  of  it  there.  But  he  did  tell  me  about 
the  journey  before  he  told  you,  and  I  realised  he  would 


76  SNAKE-BITE 

ask  you  to  make  it  not  because  you  were  a  doctor,  but 
because  he  cared  for  me  and  wished  to  have  me  near  him. 
I  was  insincere  with  you  in  concealing  that.  I  felt  I 
couldn't  tell  you  after  I  had  refused  to  go.  When  I 
understood  that  you  could  go  without  me — that  night  on 
the  terrace — somehow  my  sense  of  chivalry,  of  honour 
towards  you,  seemed  to  die  in  me  all  in  a  moment. 
Women  are  made  like  that,  Alan.  They  can't  help  it.  If 
it's  anyone's  fault  it's  the  Creator's.  So  then  I  said  I 
would  go.  But  Horace  Pierpont  and  I  never  spoke  of 
our  love  for  each  other  till  the  other  day  at  Insalah.  Then 
we  spoke  together.  He  has  never  taken  me  in  his  arms. 
He  has  never  kissed  me.  Once  I  asked  you  how  much 
love  you  had  to  give  to  me.  And  I  said  that  some  men 
had  more  to  give  to  a  woman  than  others  had,  and  that 
they  were  the  dangerous  men  to  women  like  me.  I  was 
thinking  of  Horace  Pierpont  when  I  said  that.  I  feel 
he's  a  big  man  and  that  he  loves  in  a  big  way.  Now  you 
know  all  the  truth.  Go  and  save  him  now,  Alan,  know 
ing  it.  Somehow  I  feel  you  can.  You  are 'a  generous 
man.  I  have  always  known  that  in  my  heart.  Save  him 
and  then  let  us  part  from  him.  We  must  go  back  to 
Beni  Mora,  Alan.  You  will  have  done  a  great  thing, 
though  it  is  such  a  simple  thing  to  do,  and,  of  course, 
just  your  plain  duty.  But  to  be  able  to  do  it  in  this 
moment  will  be  great,  I  think,  and  I  shall  always  love 
you  for  having  been  able  to  do  it." 

Then  she  turned  away  from  him,  knelt  down  by  her 
little  camp  bed  and  laid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

At  that  moment  she  was  conscious  of  a  wonderful 
sense  of  peace.  A  great  burden  seemed  to  have  slipped 
from  her  shoulders.  In  a  moment  she  heard  Alan's  voice 
say: 

"Thank  you,  Fay.    I'll  go  and  look  after  him." 

And  then  she  was  alone. 

Pierpont,  who  had  stripped  to  his  shirt,  and  was  lying 
down  on  his  bed,  heard  a  step  and  looked  at  the  tent  door. 


SNAKE-BITE  77 

The  doctor  came  in  carrying  a  leather  case  in  his  hand. 

"How  are  you  feeling?"  he  asked. 

"Pretty  well.  There's  beginning  to  be  a  faint  sensa 
tion  of  nausea." 

"That'll  increase,  I  expect  And  you  may  be  cold 
presently." 

"Cold!"  exclaimed  Pierpont  incredulously. 

"Yes.  We  shall  have  to  remain  here  and  keep  you 
quiet  for  several  days,  in  all  probability.  I'm  going  to 
inject  Calmette's  anti-venomous  serum,  and,  close  to  the 
bite,  permanganate  of  potash." 

He  began  to  open  the  leather  case.  His  manner  was 
quiet  His  voice,  to  Pierpont,  sounded  professional. 
Pierpont  lay  and  watched  his  preparations  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said: 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"Oh,  she  backed  you  up.  Evidently  I've  been  a  fool. 
The  sirocco  has  got  into  my  veins  and  poisoned  me,  body 
and  mind,  for  the  time.  I  ought  to  apologise  to  you,  I 
suppose.  Now  then!" 

"Wait!"  said  Pierpont 

"There's  no  time  to  lose." 

"No,  no — wait!  I  do  love  your  wife.  I  loved  her 
at  Beni  Mora,  but  I  never  told  her  so.  I  never  said  a 
word  to  her.  But  I  loved  her  and  I  love  her  still.  That's 
why  I  asked  you  to  come  with  me." 

Alan  stood  by  the  bed  with  the  needle  in  his  hand. 

"Does  she  love  you?"  he  asked. 

"Not  a  bit.  She  knows  nothing  about  it  But  I 
couldn't  let  you  cure  me  without  telling  you.  I  thought 
I  could  in  the  gully,  but  now — damn  it ! — I  can't." 

"Pierpont,  you're  a  tremendous  liar.  But  I  don't  think 
you'd  lie  except  for  a  woman.  She's  different  She's 
— she's" — his  mouth  twitched  for  a  moment — "she's 
given  you  away,  Pierpont  She  backed  you  up  at  first. 
But  when  she  saw  I  was  getting  the  serum  she  couldn't 
keep  it  up.  And  now  I've  something  to  tell  you,  and 


78  SNAKE-BITE 

then  we  shall  be  clear.    I  let  the  snake  bite  you.    I  wished 
it  to  bite  you.    But  I  can't  let  it  kill  you,  Pierpont." 

He  bent  down  over  Pierpont  and  injected  the  serum 
into  him. 

Fifteen  days  later,  after  a  brief  but  sharp  illness,  Pier 
pont  si  x>d  in  front  of  the  officers'  quarters  at  Insalah 
and  ws'ched  a  caravan  start  for  the  north.  Fay  Mor- 
t:mer  h,  .d  found  the  fatigues  of  desert  travelling  too  great 
for  her  endurance,  and  had  been  forced  to  abandon  the 
journey  to  Tombouctou.  Her  husband  had,  therefore, 
resigned  his  position  as  doctor  to  the  American,  and  was 
on  the  way  baa  with  her  to  Beni  Mora.  The  almost  im 
possible  had  been  accomplished.  The  caravan  had  been 
broken  up.  Two  French  officers  with  an  escort  had  hap 
pened  to  pass  Insalah  on  their  way  to  Ouargla  just  when 
the  Mortimers  and  Pierpont  were  debating  what  to  do. 
And  at  the  instance  of  Colonel  Laperine,  the  command 
ant  of  Insalah,  they  had  agreed  to  look  after  the  Mor 
timers  as  far  as  Ouargla.  From  there  it  would  be  quite 
easy  to  reach  Amara  and  Beni  Mora.  Saad  ben  Youssef 
remained  with  his  master. 

As  the  moving  caravan  crawled,  a  long  darkness,  over 
the  sunlit  sands,  Colonel  Laperine,  who  was  standing 
beside  Pierpont,  remarked  in  French : 

"That  was  a  very  charming  woman." 

"Mrs.  Mortimer;  yes,  she  is  charming." 

"Much  too  charming  to  go  to  Tombouctou.  And  yet 
I  think  she  was  very  unhappy  at  giving  up  the  journey." 

"D'you  think  so?    She  went  off  quite  gaily." 

"Oh,  yes.    She  went  off  quite  gaily." 

"Well,  then!"  said  Pierpont  lightly. 

"Are  they  happy  together,  those  two?"  asked  the 
Colonel,  still  following  the  caravan  with  his  keen  eyes. 

"Surely!  Don't  they  seem  so?" 

"He  looks  very  ill,  I  think." 

"He  doesn't  look  well,  poor  chap." 

"If 1  wonder  whether  she  would  break  her  heart?" 


SNAKE-BITE  79 

"I  think  she  has  a  great  opinion  of  her  husband,'1  said 
Pierpont  firmly.  "He's  a  fine  fellow.  The  trouble  he 
took  with  me  was  quite  wonderful." 

"Then  you  certainly  have  cause  to  think  well  of  him." 

"I  have,  indeed." 

"There's  something  about  Madame  Mortimer  that  in 
trigues  me  very  much,"  said  the  Colonel,  "and — the 
devil — I  don't  know  what  is.  She  looks  to  me  like  a 
woman  who  has  travelled  even  farther  than  Tombouctou. 
She  looks — but  speculations  are  useless.  With  a  woman 
one  never  knows." 

"No,"  returned  Pierpont.  "With  a  woman  one  never 
knows." 

With  a  sigh  Colonel  Laperine  turned  away  and  went 
into  his  quarters. 

But  Pierpont  stood  where  he  was  till  the  moving  dark 
ness  of  the  caravan  faded  into  the  golden  bosom  of  the 
sands. 


TWO :  THE  LOST  FAITH 


WHEN  Lord  Sandring  returned  from  America  he  was 
in  high  spirits.  His  visit  had  been  more  interesting, 
more  delightful,  even  than  he  had  anticipated.  He 
had  been  warmly  welcomed  in  various  centres  of  cul 
ture,  had  met  many  fascinating  personalities,  and  to 
crown  his  satisfaction,  which,  indeed,  almost  amounted 
to  complacency,  had  brought  off  a  coup;  yes,  really  a 
coup.  He  had  persuaded,  induced,  got — he  finally  set 
tled  on  that  strong,  virile  little  word  got — Olivia  Traill, 
the  most  remarkable  woman  in  New  York  (if  he  knew 
anything  of  women),  to  promise  that  she  would  cross 
the  ocean  in  February  and  pay  a  visit  to  London  to 
show  them  all  how  well-founded  his  theories  were. 
His  peers  might  call  him  a  crank,  a  fellow  with  a  bee  in 
his  bonnet,  a  victim  of  charlatans,  even  a  bit  of  a  char 
latan  himself.  Pioneers,  the  hewers  of  new  paths 
through  the  forest  of  ignorance  towards  the  clear  light 
of  true  understanding,  were  always  girded  at,  sneered 
at  Olivia — it  had  already  come  to  that,  merely  Olivia — 
Olivia  would  show  them!  Lord  Sandring  went  about 
almost  chuckling  under  his  bristling  brown  moustache, 
as  he  repeated  to  himself  again  and  again  that  Olivia 
would  show  them ! 

Lord  Sandring  was  unmarried,  rich,  and  just  at  the 
right  age.  He  was  thirty-eight;  old  enough  to  know, 
young  enough  to  exult  The  follies  of  youth  lay  be 
hind  him,  the  dreary  regrets  of  old  age  perhaps  before, 

80 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  81 

but  far  ahead  in  the  distance.  Meanwhile,  there  he  was 
— mature,  like  an  excellent  bottle  of  wine.  And  he  had 
got  Olivia  to  do  it.  He  was  indeed  a  happy  man  when 
he  walked  into  the  Bureau  of  Psychic  Healing,  which  he 
had  established  at  his  own  expense  in  a  quiet  street  not 
far  from  Piccadilly.  He  was  going  to  make  Harley 
Street  "sit  up,"  by  Jove,  he  was.  The  doctors  laughed 
at  his  pretensions,  but  wait  till  Olivia  arrived ! 

She  came  by  the  Yellow  Star  Liner,  the  Hiawatha, 
and  Lord  Sandring  and  his  ardent  coadjutor,  Miss 
Averil  Jones,  met  her  on  the  quay  at  Liverpool.  It  was 
a  day  such  as  might  have  been  described  in  the  Inferno, 
but  Lord  Sandring  was  in  a  state  of  properly  controlled 
ecstasy,  and  Miss  Jones,  in  a  coat  and  skirt  of  heather 
mixture,  boots  the  shape  of  the  foot,  and  a  hat  that 
would  have  looked  well  on  the  head  of  a  statesman  of 
sporting  tendencies,  beamed  over  her  pince-nez  as  who 
should  say  "Hallelujah!" 

"Are  you  quite  alone?"  said  Lord  Sandring,  as  he 
grasped  Olivia's  firm  hand  and  looked  into  her  steady, 
unworldly  grey  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  in  a  strong  mezzo  soprano  voice. 

"No  maid?" 

"I  don't  need  a  maid  on  a  journey.  Do  you?"  she 
turned  her  cordial  eyes  on  Averil  Jones. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Averil.  "But  then,  I  never 
wear  anything  that  fastens  behind!" 

"Now  you're  treading  on  the  verge  of  the  mysteries," 
laughed  Lord  Sandring.  "Hullo!" 

At  this  moment  a  tall,  well-dressed  young  man,  ap 
parently  almost  a  boy,  with  light,  straight  hair,  a  short 
upper  lip,  and  ardent,  indeed  almost  fanatical,  blue  eyes, 
suddenly  interposed  his  athletic  figure  between  Olivia 
and  her  welcomers. 

"I've  got  all  your  luggage  together,"  he  said  to  Olivia. 
"Your  porter's  number  is  fifty-three,  a  short  man  with 
a  nose — well,  I  mean,  with  an  unusually  large  nose. 
Shall  I ?" 


82  SNAKE-BITE 

"Let  me  introduce  you  to  Lord  Sandring,"  interrupted 
Olivia. 

The  young  man  swung  round  with  an  eager,  search 
ing  look. 

"Lord  Sandring,  this  is  a  friend  of  mine,  Fernol  West 
Fernol,  this  is  Miss  Averil  Jones." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,"  said  the  young  man.  "You 
may  possibly  have  heard  of  me.  Not  that  I  am  famous ! 
But  she  cured  me.  I'm  just  one  of  her  marvellous  cures. 
My  father  is  Garstin  Allerton  West,  the  financier.  I 
had  a  bad  accident  in  Central  Park,  fell  from  my  horse. 
She  pulled  me  out  of  hell." 

Lord  Sandring  glowed. 

"Of  course  I've  heard  of  you.  I  was  hoping  to  meet 
you  in  New  York,  but  you  were  in  Chicago  with  your 
father  when  I  was  there.  You  are  one  of  the  greatest 
proofs  of  our  dear  friend's  powers.  Miss  Jones,  you 
remember  my  telling  you " 

"The  case  is  tabulated  at  the  Bureau,"  said  Averil. 
She  gazed  at  the  young  man  with  profound  interest 
"You're  tabulated,"  she  assured  him. 

"Sounds  cosy!"  he  rejoined.  "Seems  to  give  me  a 
sort  of  niche  over  here,  makes  one  feel  at  home.  I  shall 
think  of  that  at  the  Savoy  to-night.  I  owe  it  to  her. 
I  owe  everything  to  her." 

There  was  something  striking  in  the  tone  of  his  manly 
voice,  something  that  suggested  worship,  a  hidden  thing 
absorbed,  living  by,  and  in,  some  atmosphere,  deprived 
of  which  it  must  fail  and  fall  away  and  be  as  nothing. 
Lord  Sandring's  thin,  eager  face  suddenly  became  grave, 
intense.  A  piercing  curiosity  shone  in  his  small,  dark 
eyes.  He  lowered  his  head  and  gazed  at  Olivia. 

"I  was  enabled  to  do  him  good,"  she  said  simply,  with 
out  the  least  trace  of  conceit  or  egoism.  "He  had  faith 
in  me  and  that  made  it  inevitable.  Now,  good-bye,  Fer 
nol.  I'll  remember — number  fifty-three,  with  a  nose. 
I'll  write  to  you  when  I'm  settled." 

The  young  man  took  off  his  soft  hat.    But  Lord 


THE  LOST  FAITJI  83 

Sandring  had  a  word  to  say  to  him,  more  than  a  word. 

" You'll  be  at  the  Savoy!"  he  said.  "I  shall  be  certain 
to  find  you  there  if  I  call?" 

"Oh,  yes.    It's  good  of  you  to  say " 

"Good!  I'm  deeply  interested  in  your  case.  You  are 
a  living  wonder,  Mr.  West." 

"That's  what  my  people  over  there  say." 

"You  are  a  great  proof  that  my  theories  are  founded 
on  the  impregnable  rock  of  truth.  Lunch  with  me  to 
morrow  in  the  restaurant  at  half-past  one,  will  you? 
We  must  be  friends." 

"So — you  didn't  come  alone!"  said  Lord  Sandring  to 
Olivia,  as  they  went  towards  the  customs,  jostled  by  the 
crowd  in  the  gathering  darkness  of  winter.  "You 
brought  one  of  your  'cures'  with  you.  A  very  sensible 
thing  to  do.  It  will  help  us  greatly  with  London." 

"But  I  didn't  bring  Fernol,"  she  said.  "He  turned 
up  on  the  boat.  I  knew  nothing  of  his  intention.  But 
I'm  very  glad  he  came  over.  I  love  him." 

Miss  Jones  jumped  in  her  heather  mixture  under  the 
statesman's  hat. 

"One  loves  those  whom  one  has  healed,"  said  Olivia, 
"They  are  witnesses  to  the  Divine  Power,  and  one  can't 
look  at  them  without  joy.  And  joy  and  love  are  twins, 
I  think." 

"Oh,  in  that  way!  I  quite  understand!"  said  Miss 
Jones,  with  a  little  air  of  evaporation. 

"I  know !   I  know !"  said  Lord  Sandring. 

She  took  a  long  and  very  feminine  survey  of  the  Faith 
healer,  and  then  added :  "I  think  you  are  very  universal, 
Miss  Traill." 

"But  very  personal,  too,"  said  Lord  Sandring.  "In 
tensely  personal." 

"There's  the  nose!"  exclaimed  Olivia,  "I'm  certain 
that's  number  fifty-three." 

"How  quick  you  are!"  said  Lord  Sandring.  "Noth 
ing  escapes  you!  You  are  really  wonderful!" 


84  SNAKE-BITE 

And  he  made  for  her  porter. 

Within  half  an  hour  they  were  all  in  the  London  ex 
press,  rushing  through  the  darkness  towards  the  great 
city. 

They  had  agreed  not  to  talk  at  the  request  of  Olivia. 
She  had  said  very  simply  that  she  wanted  to  "get  ready" 
for  London.  She  had  never  yet  been  there.  She  was  go 
ing  there  not  as  the  ordinary  person  goes  on  business, 
or  pleasure,  or  family  affairs,  but  to  bring  to  London  her 
great  power  of  healing,  a  new  force,  almost  a  new 
gospel.  Although  absolutely  free  from  pose,  Olivia  took 
herself  and  her  powers  seriously.  She  could  not  do 
otherwise,  for  she  believed  herself  to  be  the  repository 
of  a  noble  force,  and  she  had  to  be  careful  of  it,  to  guard 
it,  to  cherish  it,  lest  it  might  diminish  or  die  out  alto 
gether.  So  she  "gathered  herself  together"  while  the 
train  ran  on,  while  Lord  Sandring  read  "the  Hibbert 
Journal,"  and  Miss  Averil  Jones  turned  the  pages  of 
"Country  Life"  and  meditated  on  the  respective  beauties 
of  Tudor  and  Georgian  homesteads. 

Olivia  was  only  just  twenty-eight,  but  she  had  had 
already  a  remarkable  career.  The  daughter  of  a  Boston 
bookseller,  she  had  been  an  unusually  earnest  and  medi 
tative  child,  though  crammed  full  of  vitality,  and  not 
without  the  saving  grace  of  a  robust  sense  of.  humour. 
She  had  worked  hard  at  college  and  had  done  well.  But 
her  teachers,  and  even  many  of  her  school-mates,  had 
felt  rather  than  noticed  in  her  something  that  set  her 
apart  from  the  typical  "bright"  student,  who  is  good  at 
passing  examinations  and  carrying  off  prizes.  Some 
times  she  had  seemed  to  fall  into  walking  dreams,  to  be 
come  abruptly  remote,  and  at  these  moments  there  was 
about  her,  as  if  emanating  from  her,  an  atmosphere 
heavy,  indeed  almost  sullen,  which  suggested  a  caged 
power  softly  struggling  to  spread  itself  over  large  spaces. 
Many  were  disturbed  by  this  atmosphere,  and  asked 
Olivia  why  she  was  so  "odd"  at  times.  She  had  no  sat 
isfactory  answer  to  give  them.  For  it  was  no  satisfac- 


THE  LOST  FAITJH  85 

tory  answer  to  tell  them  that  she  felt  "odd"  in  these  mo 
ments.  She  herself  did  not  know  why  she  was  seized 
with  a  strange  sensation  as  if  someone  were  thwarting 
her,  as  if  she  possessed  something — some  power — which 
she  ought  to  give  out,  to  exercise,  but  which  she  was 
obliged  to  keep  shut  up  within  herself,  useless,  till  it  lay 
like  a  burden  upon  both  her  body  and  soul.  Sometimes, 
giving  herself  up  to  introspection,  she  asked  herself  what 
this  power  was.  But  she  could  not  identify  it.  She  did 
not  feel  that  she  was  superior  to  her  college  mates  in 
intellect.  She  had  fairly  good  brains,  but  there  were 
many  others  who  had  brains  as  good  as  hers,  or  much 
better.  Her  imagination  was  not  remarkable.  She  was 
not  conscious  of  possessing  the  peculiar  gifts  of  one  des 
tined  to  be  creative.  Nevertheless,  she  often  felt  that  she 
possessed  some  hidden  force  which  set  her  apart  from 
all  those  about  her,  and  at  times  it  seemed  almost  to  rend 
her.  Then  she  became  melancholy,  brooding,  perhaps 
sullen,  and  was  beset  by  a  numbing  misery  half  spiritual, 
half  physical.  This  continued  till  she  was  seventeen. 

Then  enlightenment  came. 

A  young  and  pretty  girl  who  was  afflicted  with  St. 
Vitus's  dance  arrived  at  the  school.  At  times  she  was 
like  the  other  girls,  but  in  moments  of  excitement,  or 
if  she  were  startled  by  any  unexpected  happening,  she 
would  twitch,  jump,  turn  her  poor  head  awry,  jerk  her 
hands  and  arms,  almost  rattle  in  the  throes  of  her  piteous 
complaint.  Some  of  the  girls  laughed  at  her  till  they 
were  rebuked  by  the  mistresses;  others  were  afraid  of 
her.  Nearly  all  the  pupils  wondered  at  and  finally  pitied 
her.  And  the  poor  child  pitied  herself,  and  was  deeply 
ashamed  of  the  exhibitions  she  gave. 

Olivia,  who  had  a  great  deal  of  stillness  and  calm, 
despite  her  abounding  vitality,  had  never  before  wit 
nessed  such  a  nervous  complaint,  and  at  first  she  looked 
on  it  with  an  amazement  which  she  tried  to  conceal.  Her 
amazement  was  succeeded  by  a  shrinking  of  disgust  for 
which  she  blamed  herself  severely.  But  her  blame  of 


86  SNAKE-BITE 

herself  did  not  drive  the  disgust  away  until  the  appointed 
time. 

One  day  when  Olivia  had  fallen  into  one  of  her 
"moods,"  as  her  college  mates  called  her  peculiar  fits  of 
depression  and  uneasiness,  Lily  happened  to  be  in  the 
room  with  her  reading.  Lily  was  deeply  interested  in 
her  book,  and  was  sitting  quite  still,  immersed,  self  for 
getful  and  happy.  Olivia  was  brooding  in  a  corner.  A 
dog  outside  gave  vent  to  a  piercing  and  prolonged  howl. 

Instantly  Lily  fell  into  a  sort  of  convulsion.  The 
hand  which  was  holding  the  book  shot  up  from  her  lap, 
hurling  the  book  into  the  air.  Her  head  jerked  fran 
tically.  Her  whole  body  was  in  violent  movement.  Even 
her  teeth  snapped.  Olivia  sat  watching  for  a  moment. 
Then,  as  if  ordered,  she  got  up,  came  over  to  the  child, 
stood  in  front  of  her,  gazed  steadily  at  her,  and  said  in 
a  firm,  rather  loud  voice : 

"Lily,  you  need  not  do  that." 

"I— can't— help — it!"  gasped  the  child 

Olivia  stretched  out  her  hands. 

"Yes,  you  can.    Take  hold  of  me." 

The  child  mechanically  snatched  at  Olivia's  hands  and 
clutched  them. 

"That's  right.  Now  believe  that  I  can  stop  you  from 
shaking  like  that  and  I  shall  be  able  to  stop  you." 

There  was  authority  in  her  voice,  authority  in  her 
whole  bearing,  and  in  her  steady  and  shining  eyes.  Lily 
looked  at  her,  and  was  quieter. 

"Now  lift  your  hands  with  mine  and  press  them 
against  your  forehead." 

Lily  did  so,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  perfectly  calm. 

"I  can  cure  you  of  your  trouble,"  said  Olivia. 

"But  the  doctors  can't." 

"That's  no  matter.  Just  tell  me — do  you  believe  that 
I  can  cure  you?" 

After  a  pause,  and  a  long  look,  the  child  replied  sim 
ply: 

"Yes." 


THE  LOST  FAITH  87 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Olivia's  career.  She  had 
discovered  what  the  power  was  which  she  had  long 
suspected  she  possessed,  which  she  had  long  sought  for. 
She  was  a  natural  "healer." 

An  extraordinary  feeling  of  relief,  of  emancipation, 
came  to  her.  She  seemed  to  float  into  peace.  Strength 
thrilled  in  her,  tingled  all  through  her.  A  great  oppres 
sion  was  removed.  The  burden  dropped  from  her — the 
burden  of  ignorance.  She  had  not  known  what  she  was, 
now  she  knew.  And  she  was  wonderfully  happy,  and 
worshipped.  She  worshipped  what  was  within  her,  and 
Him  who  had  put  it  there.  But  she  did  not  worship  her 
self.  For,  even  in  that  first  moment  of  illumination,  she 
regarded  herself  as  a  vessel  into  which  something 
precious  had  been  poured,  and  she  was  humble  in  spirit. 

She  was  humble,  but  she  was  exalted  with  faith.  Faith 
made  her  feel  strong  like  a  lion  and  prodigiously  inde 
pendent,  as  if  the  world  belonged  to  her,  was  suddenly 
enclosed  in  her  hand. 

So — Olivia  began  her  career,  a  career  which  was  to 
bring  her  into  extraordinary  prominence,  even  into  fame. 

She  cured  Lily  of  St  Vitus's  dance — not  immediately, 
but  within  a  few  months.  The  nervous  excesses  became 
less  violent;  less  prolonged;  the  intervals  between  them 
widened;  finally  they  yielded  instantaneously  to  treat 
ment  by  Olivia,  and  at  last  ceased  altogether. 

Lily's  parents  were  enraptured,  and  Lily  herself  re 
garded  Olivia  as  a  giver  of  life.  The  cure,  having  been 
made  in  a  big  school,  was  carried  abroad  by  many  tongues 
of  mistresses  and  pupils. 

Olivia  was  soon  on  the  way. 

At  first  her  parents  were  inclined  to  oe  alarmed  by 
the  new  and  startling  development  in  the  family  circle, 
but  they  quickly  "came  round"  when  they  realised 
Olivia's  quiet  determination,  and  noticed  the  respect  in 
which  she  began  to  be  held  by  many  of  their  neighbours. 
Mr.  Traill  had  an  important  and  prosperous  bookseller's 
business,  and  as  his  daughter's  fame  spread  abroad  he 


88  SNAKE-BITE 

found  that  it  did  him  no  harm.  Certainly  the  doctors 
showed  a  strongly  antagonistic  spirit,  and  were  con 
temptuous  of  his  daughter's  cure,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  newspaper  men  took  her  up.  She  was  written 
about,  interviewed.  People  thronged  to  his  store  to 
inquire  about  her,  and  often  bought  books  when  their 
curiosity  was  partially  satisfied.  Olivia's  peculiar  gift, 
if  gift  it  were,  certainly  made  things  hum  in  the  store. 
And  then  Olivia  herself  was  greatly  improved  since  that 
first  strange  episode  with  Lily.  A  sunny  cheerfulness 
radiated  from  her.  Her  vitality  of  mind  and  her  vigour 
of  body  were  strengthened.  It  was  impossible  not  to 
feel  the  power  which  emanated  from  her,  difficult  not  to 
believe  that  it  was  wholly  beneficent. 

Her  parents  would  never  submit  themselves  to  Olivia 
when  they  were  unwell,  which  happened  now  and  then. 
They  stuck  to  the  family  doctor,  who,  by  the  way,  was 
a  good  customer  to  the  store.  But  they  soon  began  to 
be  rather  proud  of  her  "cures"  in  the  town,  and  ac 
knowledged  that  there  was  "something  in  it  all." 
America  is  the  home  of  strange  "cults."  By  degrees  a 
sort  of  "cult"  for  Olivia  grew  up.  She  took  it  all  very 
quietly  and  reasonably.  Her  head  was  never  in  any 
danger  of  being  turned  by  the  noise  made  about  her.  She 
was  full  of  robust  common  sense,  and  never  encouraged 
folly  in  others.  But  side  by  side  with  the  strain  of  com 
mon  sense  in  her  there  was  another  strain.  When  she 
had  discovered  her  power  of  healing  she  had  discovered 
the  source  from  which  it  flowed.  That  source  was  faith. 
When  she  stood  before  her  convulsed  school-mate  she 
had  felt  that  she  was  resting  on  a  rock,  the  rock  of  a 
great  faith ;  faith  in  her  power  to  heal,  faith  in  Him  who 
had  given  it  to  her.  At  that  moment  she  had  realised 
a  mighty  truth,  that  faith  can  move  the  mountains. 
And  she  knew  that  she  had  moved  her  first  mountain  on 
the  day  when  Lily  was  cured. 

From  that  day  onward  she  strove  to  live  by  faith.  She 
boldly  called  herself  a  faith  healer,  and  declared  that 


THE  LOST  FAITJI  89 

though  no  doubt  she  possessed  some  peculiar  physical 
gift,  without  faith  she  would  be  powerless  to  employ  it 
beneficially. 

She  spoke  quite  frankly  to  those  who  cared  to  listen 
about  the  necessity  of  this  strange  and  mysterious  aid, 
and  demanded  co-operation  from  those  who  consulted 
her. 

"I  don't  believe  I  can  bring  about  a  complete  cure  of 
any  malady  if  I  fail  to  convey  my  own  faith  in  myself 
to  the  patient,"  she  said.  "I  need  reciprocal  faith." 

And  often  she  would  say  to  the  sick : 

"I  believe  that  I  can  cure  you,  and  you  must  believe 
it  too.  Then  we  shall  work  together,  and  all  must  go 
well." 

Very  seldom  she  failed  to  pour  faith  into  those  who 
came  to  her.  The  mere  sight  of  her  often  swept  away 
scepticism. 

Olivia  was  not  beautiful.  She  was  fairly  tall,  with  a 
rather  large  frame  and  robust  shoulders.  Her  features 
were  blunt  and  rough  hewn,  lacking  in  fineness  and  deli 
cacy,  but  powerful  and  indicative  of  will.  Her  brow  was 
broad  and  intellectual,  and  her  grey  eyes  were  large 
and  lustrous.  She  had  splendid  brown  hair,  full  of  life 
and  warm  colour,  which  she  wore  parted  in  the  middle 
and  gathered  into  a  big  roll  behind.  Her  whole  appear 
ance  suggested  honesty,  fixity  of  purpose,  energy  and 
kindliness.  There  was  never  a  trace  of  self -consciousness 
in  her  look  or  manner.  Her  bearing  was  fearless  and 
simple.  She  always  dressed  plainly,  with  extraordinary 
neatness,  and  never  wore  anything  that  was  eccentric  or 
likely  to  draw  attention  to  her.  Most  people  were  in 
stinctively  attracted  to  her  at  first  sight.  There  were 
some  who  declared  that  she  possessed  hypnotic  powers 
and  used  them  without  acknowledging  them. 

Her  fame  gradually  spread  from  her  native  city  to 
distant  parts  of  America.  She  was  discussed,  written 
about,  praised  and  abused.  The  Christian  Scientists  soon 
heard  of  her,  and  tried  hard  to  persuade  her  to  declare 


90  SNAKE-BITE 

herself  one  of  their  body.  But  she  told  them  plainly 
that  she  found  grave  errors  in  their  teaching.  She 
thought  the  denial  of  disease  either  insincere  or  ridicu 
lous.  She  considered  that  to  tell  people  that  disease 
exists  only  in  mortal  mind  was  to  tell  them  a  flat  lie. 
She  held  that  disease  does  exist,  that  it  ravages  the  tis 
sues  of  the  body,  that  it  causes  often  agonies  of  pain, 
that  it  may  devour  the  organs  by  which  men  live,  and 
bring  about  the  cessation  of  life,  but  that  it  may  be  ar 
rested  and  finally  expelled  by  the  mysterious  curative  in 
fluence  of  another  body  helped  by  the  mind  and  soul 
within  it. 

"I  have  such  a  body,"  she  would  boldly  declare,  "and 
by  it,  using  it  as  a  vehicle,  I  convey  the  healing  force 
which  is  mysteriously  connected  with  the  soul."  She 
never  tried  to  cure  people  without  touching  them.  "I 
don't  believe  I  could  do  it,"  she  said.  "I  have  no  faith  in 
what  the  Christian  Scientists  call  'absent  treatment.'  Per 
haps  I  am  wrong  in  my  scepticism.  I  can't  help  that. 
My  beliefs  and  my  disbeliefs  are  given  to  me,  I  suppose, 
like  my  hands  and  feet.  I  find  myself  unable  to  change 
them.  I  think  it  honest  to  acknowledge  them.  Christ 
used  the  body  in  healing,  and  I  cannot  do  less  than  He 
did." 

She  firmly  believed,  and  always  upheld,  that  all  the 
so-called  miracles  .of  Christ  were  performed  within  the 
natural  Law,  were  not  arbitrary  violations  of  it.  (Per 
haps  she  forgot  the  raising  of  Lazarus. ) 

The  incident  which  made  Olivia  famous  throughout 
the  whole  of  the  States  was  her  cure  of  Fernol  West. 

Fernol  West  was  the  only  child  of  one  of  the  greatest 
financiers  in  America,  and  was  adored  by  both  his 
parents.  He  was  a  particularly  strong,  healthy  and  joy 
ous  boy,  very  athletic  and  devoted  to  sports  and  games, 
crammed  full  of  life  and  hope  and  promise.  When  he 
was  eighteen  he  was  the  victim  of  a  terrible  accident. 
While  out  riding  in  Central  Park  his  horse,  a  very  diffi- 


THE  LOST  FAITH  91 

cult  one,  bolted  and  dashed  the  rider  against  a  tree. 
He  was  picked  up  senseless,  and  remained  unconscious 
for  three  days.  Then  he  opened  his  eyes,  moved,  spoke, 
took  nourishment  readily.  His  delighted  parents  thought 
that  all  danger  was  over.  There  was  a  wound  in  the 
head,  but  it  gradually  healed.  No  limbs  were  broken. 
The  boy  was  soon  able  to  sit  up,  to  walk.  He  remem 
bered  his  accident  clearly.  He  knew  what  was  going  on 
around  him.  The  doctors,  the  most  famous  in  New 
York,  said  that  he  would  soon  be  all  right.  He  had  had 
a  tremendous  shock,  but  boys  as  strong  as  he  was  got  over 
such  things,  got  over  almost  anything. 

"It  will  be  all  right  with  him  soon." 

That  was  the  verdict.  And  presently  there  was  the 
rider— "He  is  all  right." 

But  time  passed  and  it  wasn't  all  right  with  Fernol. 

His  accident  had  left  him  mysteriously  and  horribly 
changed. 

He  regained  all  the  former  strength  of  his  body,  but 
he  had  lost  all  his  zest  for  life.  He  was  haunted  day 
and  night  by  the  black  dog  of  an  intense  nervous  misery. 
He  tried  to  take  up  his  old  occupations,  to  study,  to  play 
games,  to  ride  and  shoot  His  old  companions  sought 
him  out.  His  devoted  parents  did  everything  they  could 
think  of  to  make  existence  bright  and  cheery  for  him. 
Love  surrounded  him.  Money  was  lavished  upon  him. 
But  it  was  all  in  vain.  He  got  up  in  the  morning  dread 
ing  the  day  that  lay  before  him.  He  went  to  bed  at  night 
secretly  fearing  the  dark  hours.  Nobody  was  able  to 
be  of  any  real  good  to  him.  No  amusements  really  dis 
tracted  him.  Formerly  he  had  been  devoted  to  music. 
Now  the  sound  of  music  deepened,  put  an  edge  to  his 
wretchedness,  drove  him  lower  down  in  his  nightmare. 
Sometimes,  carried  by  his  malady  beyond  the  restrain 
ing  sense  of  shame,  he  would  put  his  head  down  on  his 
mother's  knees  and  cry  till  he  was  exhausted.  As  he 
said  himself,  he  felt  "damned."  It  was  inconceivable 
by  him  that  he  had  once  enjoyed  almost  every  moment 


92  SNAKE-BITE 

of  life,  had  enjoyed  getting  up,  bathing,  eating,  study 
ing,  talking,  playing  games,  shooting,  dancing,  reading 
a  book  over  the  fire,  meeting  other  fellows  and  knocking 
about  with  them,  sitting  in  a  corner  with  a  pretty  girl. 
He  moved  as  one  encompassed  by  a  hideous  black  cloud 
dreading  everything,  above  all  dreading  himself. 

Nerve  doctors  were  called  in  to  him.  They  said  he 
was  the  victim  of  acute  neurasthenia,  no  doubt  brought 
on  by  his  accident.  They  prescribed  all  sorts  of  things: 
massage,  physical  exercises,  tonics,  sleeping  in  the  open 
air,  rest  cures,  moving  about,  hypnotism,  cold  douches, 
travel,  hard  mental  work,  no  work  at  all,  gaieties,  com 
plete  solitude.  Their  followed  advice  did  Fernol  no 
good.  Even  the  hypnotists  failed  entirely  with  him.  He 
was  not  mad;  he  was  just  profoundly  and  unalterably 
miserable.  The  brain  specialists  said  that  there  must  be 
some  obscure  pressure  on  the  brain.  An  operation  was 
suggested,  but  as  the  surgeons  evidently  did  not  know 
exactly  what  they  would  operate  for,  Fernol's  parents 
would  not  allow  it. 

The  boy  began  to  be  haunted  by  a  longing  for  suicide. 
But  as  he  was  sane  he  fought  against  it.  Nevertheless 
he  wished  with  all  his  might  that  he  could  die  painlessly 
and  have  done  with  his  misery,  which  was  almost  un 
bearable. 

At  last  his  parents  tried  a  Christian  Science  healer, 
who  treated  their  son  for  a  long  period  with  absolutely 
no  result.  This  had  seemed  to  them  the  last  chance  for 
Fernol.  Its  failure  left  them  and  him  in  despair.  The 
boy  said  to  his  mother : 

"Mum,  I  shan't  be  able  to  stick  it  out  very  much 
longer.  You  don't  know  what  it  is.  Nobody  who  hasn't 
had  this  sort  of  thing  can  know  what  it  is.  I  tell  you 
it's  like  going  about  and  knowing  you  are  damned  for 
all  eternity.  I'm  sane,  though  you  mightn't  think  it. 
I  swear  I'm  sane.  But  I  can't  stick  it  out  much  longer. 
When  I  hear  anyone  laugh  or  see  a  happy  face  it  just 


THE  LOST  FAITff  93 

He  broke  off,  and  again  had  one  of  his  dreadful  fits 
of  weeping. 

That  night  the  mother  said  to  his  father : 

"Garstin,  what  are  we  to  do?" 

"There's  nothing  more  we  can  do/'  said  her  husband. 

"But  if  Fernol  should " 

She  did  not  dare  to  finish  the  sentence.  They  looked 
into  each  other's  faces  for  an  instant  in  silence. 

Then  Mrs.  West  said : 

"There's  only  one  more  thing  I  can  think  of — that 
woman  in  Boston." 

"What  woman?" 

"Olivia  Traill." 

"Another  doctor !  But " 

"No;  she's  a  healer." 

"That's  what  the  doctors  call  themselves,"  said  Mr. 
West  bitterly. 

"She  lays  her  hands  on  people." 

"Much  good  that'll  do!  No;  we've  tried  everything. 
The  boy'll  never  be  right  again." 

"Let  us  try  that  Miss  Traill,"  said  Mrs.  West.  "It 
will  be  useless,  of  course,  but — she  has  made  wonderful 
cures,  they  say." 

"Who  say?" 

"Weil,  the  newspapers." 

"The  papers !  Good  God— if  that's  all !" 

"I  can't  help  it.    I  shall  take  Fernol  to  Boston." 

"But  we've  tried  the  Christian  Scientists." 

"She  isn't  one.    She  doesn't  believe  in  their  theories." 

"Then  what  does  she  believe  in?" 

"Herself,  I  suppose.  She  contends  that  it's  done  part 
ly  by  faith." 

"Money-making  humbug." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  would  grudge  any  money 
» 

"No,  no!  Take  Fernol  to  Boston,  my  dear,  if  you  can 
get  him  to  go." 


94  SNAKE-BITE 

"I  think  he  would  try  anything,  poor  child.  It's — • 
it's  heartrending,  and  one  feels  so  impotent." 

"One  feels  what  one  is,"  said  Mr.  West  drearily. 

At  first  Fernol  refused  to  go  to  Boston. 

"It's  no  good,  Mum,"  he  said.  "It's  no  good.  I 
thought  that  hypnotist  fellow  might  put  me  right  I  be 
lieved  in  him.  Even  after  sixteen  goes  of  it  I  still  hoped. 
But " 

"Come,  for  my  sake." 

"No,  Mum !  Don't  ask  me  any  more.  Faith  healing ! 
And  I've  no  more  faith  in  any  damned  thing!  Don't 
drag  me  to  Boston." 

"Goby  yourself  then!" 

"No,  Mum.    Don't  ask  me." 

She  gave  it  up.  But,  to  her  great  surprise,  after  a 
few  days,  Fernol  said  to  her  desperately: 

"I  am  going  to  Boston.  I  can't  stand  another  week  of 
this.  What's  that  woman's  name?" 

"Olivia  Traill." 

"Where  does  she  live?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  her  father's  a  well-known  book 
seller.  Ask  for " 

"I'll  find  her." 

There  was  an  almost  frantic  look  on  his  grey  face;  a 
frantic  light  shone  in  his  sunken  blue  eyes. 

"She'll  be  no  earthly  good,  but  I'll  find  her."  .  .  . 

Afterwards  Fernol  often  told  the  story  of  that  visit  to 
Boston,  told  it  as  a  man  might  tell  how  out  of  darkness 
he  was  caught  up  into  Heaven. 

He  sought  out  the  bookseller's  store,  and  went  in 
among  the  stacks  of  books  and  asked  for  the  address  of 
the  bookseller's  daughter. 

A  clerk  looked  at  him  curiously  and  gave  it. 

"When  does  she  see  people?"  asked  Fernol. 

"Any  time,  I  believe,"  said  the  clerk.     "If  she's  in." 

"I'll  go  now." 

And  he  was  out  of  the  store  in  an  instant.  Not 
many  minutes  later  he  stood  at  the  door  of  a  modest 


THE  LOST  FAITJI  95 

apartment  on  the  western  outskirts  of  the  city.  A  maid 
servant  answered  his  ring.  He  asked  for  Miss  Traill. 

"She's  out  at  a  meeting/'  was  the  reply. 

Fernol  felt  a  sickness  run  all  over  him  till  it  seemed  to 
find  its  way  to  his  soul  and  make  its  home  there. 

"When  will  she  be  back?"  he  said. 

"I  couldn't  quite  say." 

"May  I  wait?  Please  let  me  wait  I  don't  care  how 
long  she  is.  I'll  just  sit  till  she  comes." 

"You  need  her,  I  can  see,"  said  the  girl.  "You  can 
come  right  in.  She'd  wish  it." 

"Would  she?"  said  Fernol. 

"She'd  wish  it." 

He  often  said  afterwards  that  something  in  those  last 
words  of  the  girl,  and  in  the  way  they  were  said,  gave 
him  "a  sort  of  lift." 

"She'd  wish  it." 

He  stepped  in,  put  his  hat  down,  and  was  shown  into 
a  plain  little  living  room,  without  any  pictures  or  orna 
ments.  On  the  wall  hung  a  scroll  showing  the  words: 
"Thy  Faith  hath  saved  thee"  A  few  books  were  lying 
about.  They  were  all  by  the  great  optimists  of  the 
world:  Emerson,  Browning,  etc.  Fernol  sat  down  in 
a  small,  but  very  comfortable  easy  chair,  rested  his 
head  on  the  back  and  looked  at  the  scroll.  Presently  he 
shut  his  eyes.  He  didn't  feel  sleepy,  but  he  did  feel  in 
clined  to  be  passive.  As  he  sat  there  life  somehow  seemed 
just  bearable.  For  many  months,  though  he  had  borne 
it,  it  had  seemed  unbearable.  He  laid  his  hands  on  his 
knees  and  let  his  muscles  relax. 

"There  seemed  to  be  something  in  the  room,"  he  af 
terwards  said,  "that  quieted  a  fellow  down." 

He  sat  like  this  for  over  an  hour  without  taking  count 
of  time.  Then  he  heard  steps  in  the  passage,  the  open 
ing  and  shutting  of  a  door  and  a  voice  speaking.  It 
said: 

'Tm  rather  late,  Annie.    Has  anyone  called  for  me  ?" 


96  SNAKE-BITE 

Another  voice — the  girl's — answered  in  a  long  and 
careful  murmur.  Then  the  first  voice  said : 

"That's  quite  right  Never  turn  anyone  away  who 
seems  really  to  need  me.  I'm  here  for  that.  Just  take 
my  hat  and  cloak  and  I'll  go  right  in  to  him." 

Fernol  sat  up.  His  misery  was  still  upon  him,  that 
almost  unbearable  misery,  at  the  same  time  vague  and 
terrific.  But  he  felt  a  sense  of  expectation  which  was 
new  to  him  since  his  accident.  Then  the  door  opened 
and  Olivia  came  into  the  room.  He  got  up.  She  looked 
straight  at  him  with  a  smile,  held  out  her  strong  hand 
cordially,  and  said: 

"Good  evening.  I'm  sorry  I've  kept  you  waiting. 
I've  been  out  to  a  lecture.  What's  your  trouble  ?" 

"Don't  you — don't  you  want  to  know  mv  name?" 
Fernol  stammered. 

"If  you'd  like  me  to  know  it." 

"Fernol  West." 

Olivia  sat  down  very  near  to  him. 

"Thank  you.  Now  sit  right  down  and  I'll  try  to  help 
you." 

He  obeyed. 

"I've  come  from  New  York.  My  mother  heard  of 
you.  She  wished — I  thought  I  would  come." 

"I'm  glad.  You're  all  wrong.  I  can  see  that.  You're 
just  choke  full  of  what  Metchnikoff  calls  'disharmonies.' 
You  know  what  I  mean  by  that,  don't  you?  You  keep 
striking  discords  inside,  and  they  make  life  hideous  to 
you." 

"Yes,  that's  just  it.  Life  is  hideous.  How  did  you 
know?" 

"Your  face  shows  it.  You  want  to  get  back  to  the 
harmonies.". 

"I  do,  oh,  I  do!  It  seems  so  unmanly — but  I  can't 
help  it." 

"Of  course  you  can't.  It  isn't  your  fault.  How  did 
it  begin?" 

He  told  her  the  story  of  his  accident  and  of  his  ap- 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  97 

parent  recovery  from  it.  Olivia  listened  with  concen 
trated  attention  without  interrupting  him  by  a  word. 

"The  doctors  said  I  was  all  right,"  he  concluded  at 
last.  "Until  I  had  to  go  to  the  nerve  men." 

"And  what  did  they  say  and  do?" 

"Well,  some  of  them  said  I  was  all  right,  too,  if  I 
would  only  use  my  will  and  look  on  the  bright  side  of 
things." 

"In  your  condition  that's  easier  said  than  done.  Tell 
me  everything  they  tried  on  you.  Don't  miss  anything." 

He  told  her  about  everything,  including  the  suggest 
ed  operation,  the  efforts  of  the  hypnotists,  and  of  the 
Christian  Scientist. 

"He  told  me  there  was  no  such  thing  as  disease,  that 
my  trouble  only  existed  in  mortal  mind." 

"I  sometimes  wish  it  was  so,"  said  Olivia.  "But,  you 
see,  the  trouble  is  that  it  isn't." 

"Then  you  think  I  am  really  ill?" 

"You're  very  bad,"  said  Olivia.  "You're  right  down 
in  Hell,  and  you've  got  to  be  pulled  out.  I  know  how 
you  feel." 

"Yes?"  he  said.  "I — I  thought  I  would  come  to 
you." 

"Very  well.  Now,  then,  the  first  thing  is  to  get  quite 
clear  between  ourselves.  I'm  not  a  doctor,  I'm  a  healer." 

She  spoke  without  the  least  trace  of  irony. 

"I  can  heal,"  she  said,  quietly  in  her  full  voice.  "I 
can  heal  you.  That's  as  sure  as  that  we're  sitting 
here.  But  you've  got  to  help  me.  Let's  have  a  little 
talk  about  faith.  Goethe  says  some  fine  things  about 
Faith." 

She  paused,  seemed  quietly  to  collect  herself,  and  then, 
leaning  forward,  quoted : 

"In  Faith  everything  depends  on  the  fact  of  believing. 
Faith  is  a  profound  sense  of  security.  The  strength  of 
this  confidence  is  the  main  thing.  Faith  is  a  holy  ves 
sel,  into  which  every  man  may  pour  his  feelings,  his 


98  SNAKE-BITE 

understanding,  and  his  imagination,  as  entirely  as  he 


can." 


Again  she  paused. 

"That's  what  Goethe  says  about  Faith.  And  someone 
greater  than  Goethe  said,  'If  thou  canst  believe,  all 
things  are  possible  to  him  that  believeth.'  " 

"Yes — I  remember  that,"  said  Fernol. 

"And  I  daresay  it  seemed  to  you  just  an  improbable 
assertion,  as  it  does  to  a  great  many  people.  Now,  when 
you  set  out  for  Boston,  had  you  any  hope  at  all  that 
I  might  cure  you?" 

"I  don't  think  I  had,"  said  Fernol. 

"Well,  you  took  a  ticket  all  the  same.  And  when 
you  got  right  here  where  I  live  ?" 

"I  don't  think  I  had  any  real  hope." 

"And  when  you  sat  in  this  room?" 

"I — I  seemed  to  feel  something  in  this  room." 

"What?" 

"I  could  hardly  say.     I  felt  quiet  here,  in  a  way." 

"Did  you  hear  me  outside?" 

"Yes." 

"I  meant  you  to.     Get  anything  from  my  voice?" 

"I — I  don't  know.  But — yes — perhaps  I  did.  I  do 
believe  I  did." 

"And  then  I  came  in,  and  here  I  am.  D'you  get  any 
thing  from  me?" 

Her  large  grey  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  but  tran 
quilly.  There  was  no  effort  in  their  gaze.  They  just 
rested  upon  him,  like  the  eyes  of  a  good  friend. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  Fernol  said  at  last,  after  a  long  si 
lence. 

"What  do  you  get?" 

"I  feel  more  of  a  man  with  you  than  I  have  felt  since 
I  had  the  accident." 

"You'd  given  up  all  hope  of  being  cured,  hadn't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  what  do  you  say  now?" 


THE  LOST  FAITJH  99 

"I  feel  that  if  anyone  on  earth  could  put  me  right  it 
would  be  you." 

She  smiled,  almost  tenderly  and  quite  happily. 

"That's  just  what  I  want  you  to  feel.  You're  com 
ing  my  way.  And  I'm  just  all  faith;  I  haven't  a  doubt 
in  me  about  my  power  to  put  you  right.  But  I've  got  to 
fill  you  right  up  with  faith  too.  Reach  out  your  hands." 

Fernol  obeyed,  and  Olivia  took  hold  of  them,  and 
kept  them  in  hers  resting  on  her  knees  while  she  went 
on  talking  about  faith,  and  quoting  what  great  men  had 
written  and  said  about  it.  She  filled  the  little  room  with 
faith,  till  it  almost  seemed  to  the  boy  that  he  could  see 
faith  hovering  there  about  the  two  of  them  like  some 
thing  tangible.  Then  at  last  she  was  silent  and  just  sat 
holding  his  hands.  Perhaps  ten  minutes  went  by;  then 
she  released  his  hands. 

"You're  better,"  she  said. 

Fernol  started.  Suddenly,  when  she  spoke,  he  real 
ised  that  for  ten  minutes  he  had  been  feeling  contented 
— interested  for  the  first  time  since  his  accident.  That 
was  very  wonderful. 

"You — you  want  me  to  go  now?"  he  said. 

He  did  not  want  to  go;  he  dreaded  to  leave  that  room. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  at  all,"  said  Olivia;  "but 
I've  got  to  get  some  tea,  and  then  I  have  one  or  two 
others  to  see." 

Fernol  got  up. 

"Shall  I  see  you  again?"  he  asked. 

A  horrible  anxiety  pulled  at  his  heart. 

"Why,  of  course!  I  may  have  to  see  you  a  good  few 
times.  I  can't  tell  yet  how  long  it  will  take.  But  it's 
going  to  be  quite  all  right.  Where  are  you  putting  up?" 

He  told  her  the  name  of  his  hotel. 

"Go  there  and  keep  quiet.  Don't  see  a  lot  of  people. 

Keep  yourself  for  me.  Read "  she  went  over  to  a 

table  and  selected  a  book — "Read  some  Walt  Whitman. 
I  love  old  Walt.  And  come  here  again  to-morrow  at  the 
same  hour.  I  feel  very  happy  about  you." 


100  SNAKE-BITE 

Her  strong  Jace  lighted  up  with  a  splendid  smile. 

"There's  a  lot  of  faith  in  you  already.  But  I  want  it 
to  fill  you  right  up.  Faith  makes  men,  and  women  too." 

Fernol  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  her.  Then,  with 
a  slight  awkwardness  and  with  a  flush  on  his  face,  he 
said : 

"May  I — will  you  please  tell  me  what  the  fee  is?" 

"Oh,  I  never  charge  anything.  See  here,  this  is  how 
it  is.  My  father's  a  bookseller " 

"I  know.     I  went  to  his  store  to  get  your  address." 

"Well,  he's  a  good  father  to  me.  He  knows  how  I 
feel,  that  to  sell  what  comes  out  of  the  spirit  into  the 
body  and  goes  out  to  those  who  need  it  badly  wouldn't 
help  me  any  in  what  I  am  trying  to  do.  I  never  could 
hold  with  that,  somehow.  It  would  seem  to  get  in  the 
way.  So  he  just  keeps  me  going  like  this.  It's  good  of 
him,  but  he's  a  good  man  though  he  runs  a  prosperous 
business.  There's  nothing  to  pay.  And  now  before  you 
go,  just  lay  hold  of  this.  You're  not  cured  yet.  So  don't 
think  it  Maybe  before  you  get  back  to  where  you're 
staying,  you'll  feel  almost  as  bad  as  ever,  perhaps  quite 
as  bad  If  you  do,  just  say  to  yourself:  'But  I  was 
well  for  ten  minutes.  And  to-morrow  I  shall  be  well 
for  half  an  hour.'  I  tell  you  that.  Do  you  believe  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Fernol. 

"That  means  you're  on  the  way  to  be  perfectly  well. 
You've  got  your  two  feet  on  the  path  that's  to  lead  you 
right  into  the  blessed  sunshiny.  I  do  feel  happy  about 
you.  Come  again  to-morrow  at  the  same  hour,  and 
write  to  your  mother  to-night  that  you're  better.  I  guess 
that  will  ease  her  mind." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "She  will  be  glad;  my  father, 
too.  But  you  give  me  all  this  and  I " 

"I  like  giving  out.    That's  how  I  get  in  strength." 

"That's  funny." 

"You'll  try  it  some  day  and  find  it  answers." 

And  she  went  with  him  to  the  door.  As  she  opened  it 
she  said : 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  101 

"Don't  forget  that  letter  to  your  mother." 

"No,  I  won't." 

"And  if  you  feel  very  bad  to-night,  you'll  write  it  just 
the  same  ?  You'll  tell  her  you're  better  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you'll  mean  it,  won't  you?  Then  just  put  a 
good  thick  line  under  the  words.  Score  them  under. 
What  time  will  you  write?" 

"Any  time." 

"No,  that  won't  do.    Tell  me  the  time." 

"Just  before  I  go  to  bed — ten  o'clock." 

"At  ten  o'clock  I'll  sit  and  think  of  you  scoring  a  line 
under  'I'm  better.' ' 

She  shook  his  hand  and  let  him  out.  .  .  . 

Just  before  ten  o'clock  that  same  night  Fernol  sat  in 
his  room  in  the  hotel  and  felt  terribly  miserable.  The 
influence  of  Olivia  Traill  seemed  to  him  to  be  operative 
only  for  so  long  as  he  was  with  her,  to  be  limited  to  her 
close  neighbourhood.  It  was  great.  He  knew  that.  He 
had  felt  it  like  something  one  can  grasp  and  lean  on. 
But  when  her  door  had  shut  her  out  from  him,  when  he 
was  alone,  could  no  longer  see  her  steady  eyes  and  hear 
her  reliant  voice,  he  had  fallen  again  into  the  blackness. 
And  awful  doubts  had  assailed  him.  If  she  could  only 
act  upon  him  when  he  sat  with  her,  felt  the  clasp  of  her 
hands,  he  could  never  be  healed  by  her.  For  he  could 
not  live  always  in  her  presence.  Was  she  like  a  doctor 
whose  treatment  was  only  efficacious  while  he  was  sitting 
by  the  patient's  bedside?  Fernol  was  almost  terrified. 
For  he  had  mounted,  and  now  felt  like  one  fallen  from 
a  height  and  lying  bruised  and  bleeding  in  some  hideous 
ravine.  Nevertheless,  as  the  hour  of  ten  drew  near  he 
remembered  his  promise,  went  to  the  writing-table  and 
sat  down.  He  did  not  like  to  break  his  promise.  That 
would  be  dishonourable.  And  yet  how  could  he  write  to 
his  mother  a  lie  ?  It  would  make  her  happy,  fill  her  with 
hope,  and  then,  when  she  saw  him  again,  her  old  distress 
would  return  upon  her  intensified.  Had  he  the  right  thus 


102  SNAKE-BITE 

to  deceive  her,  to  lay  up  for  her  such  a  burden  of  grief? 

Yet  he  took  paper  and  pen.  He  began  to  write.  The 
clock  struck  ten.  He  thought  of  Olivia.  He  knew  she 
was  doing  what  she  had  said  she  would  do.  She  was 
sitting  in  her  little  room  thinking  of  him.  She  would 
take  nothing  from  him.  She  was  a  splendid  woman  any 
how.  A  sense  of  pure  chivalry  came  to  the  boy,  guided 
his  pen  in  the  words :  "I  am  better."  Then  he  hesitated. 
Could  he  score  a  line  under  them?  "Yes,  damn  it,  I 
will!"  he  said  to  himself  with  a  sort  of  defiance.  And 
he  drew  a  thick  line.  As  he  did  so  the  cloud  lifted  from 
him — for  just  a  moment,  and  he  thought  Olivia  was  smil 
ing  in  her  room.  .  .  . 

Three  weeks  later  he  wrote  to  his  mother : 

"I  am  cured.  Olivia  Traill  is  the  greatest  woman  I 
have  ever  met.  I  am  happy.  I  enjoy  everything  I  do. 
And  it  is  all  owing  to  her." 

He  returned  to  New  York  a  changed  being.  His 
parents  saw  once  more  the  gay  energetic  youth,  full  of 
the  zest  for  life,  whom  they  had  rejoiced  in  and  mourned 
almost  as  we  mourn  for  the  dead.  They  could  not  con 
tain  their  delight.  Their  gratitude  to  the  woman  who 
had  wrought  the  marvel  was  unbounded.  Her  abso 
lute  disinterestedness  in  the  matter  astonished  them  al 
most  as  much  as  her  extraordinary  powers.  Mr,  West, 
especially,  who  was  one  of  the  shrewdest  and  hardest 
men  of  business  in  the  States,  found  it  almost  impossible 
to  believe  that  Olivia  wanted  no  reward  for  all  the  time 
she  had  given  up  to  his  son. 

"But  no  one  does  anything  for  nothing!"  he  said. 
"You  must  have  made  a  mistake,  boy.  She'll  send  in 
the  bill  to  me." 

"I  tell  you,  Father,  she  never  takes  money  for  her 
cures." 

"Then  she  must  take  something  else." 

"She  doesn't!"  asserted  Fernol,  almost  indignantly. 
"She  works  for  the  sake  of  humanity.  There's  no  other 


THE  LOST  FAITJH  103 

woman  like  her.  If  you  could  only  see  her  you'd  under 
stand." 

"Does  she  know  who  I  am?"  said  Mr.  West. 

"Of  course  she  does." 

"Then  she's  certainly  a  right  down  extraordinary 
woman." 

When  he  was  alone  with  his  wife  Mr.  West  said: 

"I  feel  like  going  over  to  Boston  to  see  this  Miss 
Traill.  I  can't  quite  understand  things." 

"How  d'you  mean,  dear?"  asked  his  wife. 

"Doesn't  it  strike  you  that  Fernol  may  be  in  love 
with  her?" 

"I  had  thought  of  that,"  Mrs.  West  said,  reflectively. 

"Fernol  will  have  big  money  some  day." 

He  glanced  at  his  wife. 

"She  might  be  playing  for  the  big  monev,  eh?" 

"If  she  were  I'd  forgive  her.  I'd  forgive  her  any 
thing  for  what  she  has  done." 

"Well,  Kate,  I  think  I'll  just  run  over  to  Boston  and 
have  a  look  at  her.  I  can  judge  women  as  well  as  most 
men,  I  guess.  That's  why  I  married  you." 

Mrs.  West  found  it  difficult  to  combat  this  proof  of 
her  husband's  astuteness.  Moreover,  she  was  intensely 
anxious  about  the  Faith  healer.  So  she  encouraged  him 
to  go.  He  returned  from  Boston  almost  as  enthusiastic 
as  his  son. 

"The  boy's  right!"  he  said.  "There's  no  other  woman 
like  Olivia  Traill.  And  she's  no  more  designs  on  Fernol 
than  I  have  on  the  Presidency.  What's  more  she  won't 
take  a  cent.  She's  a  grand  woman.  I  only  hope  Fernol 
isn't  in  love  with  her.  For  she'd  never  look  at  the  boy. 
I'm  certain  of  that  as  I  am  that  I  shall  carry  through 
the  amalgamation  of  Chicago  Automatics  with — but  you 
take  no  stock  in  such  facts,  though  you  don't  mind  play 
ing  with  the  interest.  A  woman  like  Olivia  Traill 
wouldn't  fall  in  love  easily,  and  if  she  ever  did  she'd 
choose  a  man  among  men.  She's  strong,  she's  bully 
strong,  she'd  look  for  strength." 


104  SNAKE-BITE 

"But  our  boy  is  strong,  Garstin!"  said  Mrs.  West, 
with  a  slight  sound  of  huffiness  in  her  gentle  voice. 

"Not  in  the  way  such  a  woman  would  want.  Be 
sides,  she's  seen  him  very  sick,  remember." 

"And  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"You'd  jump  to  it  if  you  knew  her.  Watch  it,  Kate, 
for  the  boy." 

And  Mrs.  West  watched  it,  with  that  gentle,  terrible 
cleverness  of  the  adoring  mother,  and  came  to  a  not 
too  unhappy  conclusion. 

Fernol  adored  Olivia  Traill,  but  not  in  the  way  of  a 
hopeful  or  even  a  longing  lover.  He  looked  up  to  her 
as  a  lover  never  quite  looks  up.  There  was  a  peculiar 
moral  admiration  in  his  worship  which  somehow  ex 
cluded  the  possibility  of  physical  passion.  Mrs.  West 
soon  found  that  out,  and  was  perfectly  at  ease  in  the 
matter. 

"Fernol  could  no  more  imagine  Miss  Traill  belonging 
to  him  than  I  could  imagine  belonging  to  Mercury,"  she 
said.  "He  sees  her  with  wings,  Garstin." 

"So  you've  figured  it  out  that  I  haven't  got  any  wings." 

She  stroked  his  hand. 

"I  should  never  have  fallen  in  love  with  Mercury.  We 
needn't  worry." 

And  they  didn't.  But  they  made  a  tremendous  propa 
ganda  for  Olivia.  And  the  papers  were  full  of  her  mar 
vellous  cure  of  the  millionaire's  son.  Fernol  had  no  sort 
of  shyness  in  alluding  to  his  former  condition  of  misery 
and  contrasting  it  with  the  glory  and  wonder  of  his  now 
abounding  health.  He  tried  to  pay  part  of  his  great  debt 
to  Olivia  by  singing  her  praises.  He  interested  himself 
in  the  progress  of  her  fame.  He  was  furious  with  those 
who  attacked  her,  resented  all  criticism  of  her  almost 
fanatically.  There  was  indeed  a  hint  of  fanaticism  in 
him  since  his  return  to  health  which  had  been  absent 
from,  or  at  any  rate  had  lain  dormant  in,  him  before 
his  accident.  This  marked  a  slight,  but  definite,  change 
in  the  boy.  But  few  people  noticed  it  as  anything  strange. 


THE  LOST  FAITH  105 

And  his  father  and  mother  thought  it  quite  natural,  and 
even  fine,  a  proof  that  their  boy  had  in  him  chivalrous 
feeling  and  an  almost  fierce  sense  of  gratitude.  Fernol's 
great  desire  was  to  persuade  Olivia  to  come  to  New 
York,  and,  at  last,  with  the  help  of  his  parents,  he 
achieved  it 

She  stayed  with  them  for  a  week  in  Fifth  Avenue. 

From  the  first  moment  of  her  arrival  she  conquered 
Fernol's  mother.  And  she  conquered  many  others  in 
New  York.  She  wished  to  have  a  quiet  visit  and  the 
Wests  wished  her  to  have  it,  but  it  was  impossible  to 
keep  everyone  out.  There  were  many  who  were  anxious 
for  her  to  try  their  healing  powers  on  them,  and  who 
clamoured  to  be  received  by  her.  She  was  firm  in  re 
fusal  of  these,  however,  and  saw  only  the  Wests'  most 
intimate  friends.  She  had  come  to  have  a  little  holiday 
because  she  needed  it.  She  knew  when  rest  was  neces 
sary  for  her,  and  she  was  resolved  to  have  it.  So  she 
went  about  with  Fernol  and  his  mother  to  see  beautiful 
things,  pictures,  statues,  antiquities,  and  she  let  them 
take  her  to  hear  fine  music. 

"I'll  come  here  again  some  day  to  work,"  she  said. 
"There's  a  new  field  for  me  here,  and  I  feel  like  tilling  it 
and  putting  in  some  seed.  But  not  just  now." 

It  was  when  they  were  at  a  concert  one  afternoon  that 
Fernol  realised,  with  a  sort  of  almost  cutting  sharpness, 
what  Olivia  had  done  for  him.  Music,  once  his  delight, 
had  been  a  torture  to  him  when  he  was  ill.  Now,  once 
more,  it  led  him  into  those  pure  regions  of  joy  to  which 
no  other  art  gives  the  soul  of  man  entrance. 

"When  I  hear  music  I  know  what  you  have  done  for 
me,"  he  whispered  to  Olivia,  during  a  pause.  "And  mu 
sic  makes  me  almost  ache  to  do  something  tremendous 
for  you.  Why  can't  I?  It  hurts." 

"You  do  all  I  want  by  being  healthy  in  body  and  mind 
and  soul,"  she  said.  "By  being  clean  and  bright  right 
through." 


106  SNAKE-BITE 

After  the  concert  he  returned  to  this  "ache,"  as  he 
called  it 

"That's  the  worst  of  music,"  he  said.  "It  makes  one 
feel  one  ought  to  do  wonderful  things,  that  one  might 
do  them  if — something.  But  what  is  the  'something'? 
Music  never  seems  to  tell  me." 

"Perhaps  some  day  you'll  find  some  wonderful  thing 
to  do  lying  close  to  your  hand,  Fernol,"  said  Olivia. 
"And  then  you'll  do  it,  without  music.  I  believe  in  doing 
things  without  anything  from  outside  helping.  All  that 
is  necessary  to  prompt  us  to  the  finest  actions  we  are 
capable  of  lies  in  ourselves.  I'm  certain  of  that." 

"You  must  be  right.  You  always  are,"  he  said.  "I 
hope  if  I  ever  can  do  anything  wonderful  I  shall  do  it 
for  you." 

Olivia  carried  out  her  intention  of  putting  in  some  seed 
in  New  York  later  on.  She  left  Boston,  rented  a  modest 
apartment  which  the  Wests  found  for  her  in  a  quiet  street 
not  far  from  them,  and  settled  down  there  to  carry 
on  her  strange  profession.  She  still  refused  to  take  fees, 
and  continued  to  live  on  the  very  moderate  allowance 
she  received  from  her  father.  And  people  of  all  classes 
thronged  to  the  little  room  where  she  saw  patients,  and 
read,  as  they  came  in  at  the  door,  the  words  Fernol  had 
seen  on  the  scroll  at  Boston,  "Thy  faith  hath  saved 
thee." 

It  was  there  that  Lord  Sandring  found  her  when  she 
had  been  in  New  York  for  over  three  years. 

II 

Lord  Sandring  was  an  enthusiast  about  what  he  called 
"Psychic  Healing,"  and  proclaimed  his  enthusiasm  in 
season  and  out  of  season.  He  was  an  amiable  man,  with 
a  good  deal  of  energy  and  some  cleverness,  but  he  was 
easily  carried  away,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  had 
been  taken  in  by  charlatans.  Society  was  inclined  to 
laugh  at  him,  and  the  medical  profession  sniffed  in  a 


THE  LOST  FAITH  107 

superior  manner  when  his  name  was  mentioned.  But 
he  was  delightfully  imperturbable  and  revelled  in  con 
troversy.  He  was  always  keen  to  have  "a  slash  at  the 
doctors,"  and  frequently  appeared  on  the  platform  in 
support  of  his  bureau.  He  possessed  large  estates  in 
Northamptonshire  and  Wiltshire,  and,  when  they  would 
allow  it,  tried  his  powers  of  psychic  healing  on  his  ten 
ants  and  villagers.  He  asserted  that  he  had  made  sev 
eral  "cures,"  and  had  published  a  beautifully-bound 
volume  dealing  with  them  in  detail.  His  claims  and  as 
sertions  had  been  received,  alas,  with  polite  incredulity 
by  a  sceptical  world,  but  opposition  only  nerved  him  to 
renewed  efforts.  He  was  of  those  who  doubt  the  value 
of  any  new  theory  unless  it  is  attacked,  and  often  said : 
"If  the  doctors  didn't  go  for  me  I  should  be  afraid  I 
was  on  the  wrong  road."  Such  a  man  is  difficult  to 
knock  out,  and  hitherto,  even  after  the  most  violent  bouts, 
Lord  Sandring  had  always  gone  smiling  out  of  the 
ring.  But,  as  his  "Psychic  Healing  Bureau"  did  not 
make  much  headway,  he  had  gone  to  America  to  seek 
for  "new  blood."  Olivia  Traill's  arrival  in  London  was 
a  triumph  for  him.  He  had  persuaded  her  to  come  over 
for  a  short  time  merely  in  order  to  show  people  that  he 
had  preached  a  true  gospel,  that  the  healing  power,  backed 
by  faith,  could  accomplish  marvels,  that  spirit  could 
sometimes  do  for  the  body  something  that  medicine  could 
not  do.  His  psychic  healers  had  not  been  altogether  lucky 
in  their  well-meant  endeavours  to  get  the  better  of  physi 
cal  troubles.  His  instinct  told  him  that  the  time  had 
arrived  to  "make  a  big  splash."  He  meant  to  make  this 
big  splash  with  Olivia. 

She  had  come  to  London  simply  to  put  some  seed  in 
new  ground.  She  had  accepted  from  Lord  Sandring 
the  money  for  her  passage  over,  not  a  penny  more.  He 
had  prepared  for  her  a  room  at  the  Psychic  Healing  Bu 
reau,  where  she  would  receive  patients,  and  he  had  given 
it  out  that  the  famous  Miss  Traill  would  not  make  any 
money  out  of  her  visit  to  England,  but  came  to  put  her 


108  SNAKE-BITE 

extraordinary  powers  gratuitously  at  the  service  of  suf 
fering  humanity.  He  had  also  arranged  for  her  to  de 
liver  a  short  course  of  lectures  on  "Faith,"  "The  Power 
of  Spirit  over  Matter,"  and  kindred  subjects. 

Olivia's  first  lecture  at  the  small  Queen's  Hall  was  not 
largely  attended,  but  several  well-known  people  were 
present.  Among  them,  to  the  great  surprise  of  Lord 
Sandring,  was  the  celebrated  soldier,  General  Sir  Hector 
Burnington. 

What  Sir  Hector  was  doing  in  that  galere  Lord  Sand- 
ring  could  not  imagine.  He  came  in  two  or  three  min 
utes  late  alone,  sat  down  at  the  back  of  the  room,  stayed 
till  the  end  of  Olivia's  speech,  and  then  got  up  and  went 
out.  Lord  Sandring  saw  the  General's  towering  figure 
on  its  way  to  the  door  as  he  rose  to  "say  a  few  words" 
of  comment  on  the  lecture  and  of  thanks  to  the  lecturer. 
He  was  almost  stupefied,  but  recovered  his  aplomb  in  a 
moment,  and  spoke  with  his  usual  energy  and  effective 
ness.  Afterwards  he  said  to  Olivia : 

"I  wish  the  audience  had  been  larger,  but  you  had  one 
of  our  greatest  men  to  hear  you." 

Fernol  West,  who  was  with  them,  said  eagerly, 

"Who  was  that?  Was  it  the  immensely  tall  fellow  who 
sat  at  the  back?" 

"To  be  sure  it  was,"  said  Lord  Sandring. 

"I  saw  him,"  said  Olivia.    "Who  is  he?" 

"Sir  Hector  Burnington,  the  only  man  we've  got  with 
a  genius  for  organisation  and  a  supreme  power  of  man 
aging  men." 

"Burnington!"  exclaimed  Fernol.    "You  don't  say!" 

He  flushed  with  pride  for  Olivia. 

"We  must  get  that  in  the  Press." 

"I  shouldn't,"  said  Lord  Sandring,  with  unusual  self- 
restraint.  "Burnington's  a  wonderful  fellow,  but  he's  an 
odd  fellow,  and  wants  careful  handling,  if  he  can  be 
handled  at  all.  Some  of  the  politicians  say  he  can't.  As 
to  women — well,  Miss  Traill,  I  daresay  you  know  his 
reputed  views  about  them !" 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  109 

"They  say  in  the  States  that  he  thinks  we  are  not  helps 
but  hindrances  to  any  big  man  who's  got  big  work  to 
do  in  the  world.  Is  it  true  ?" 

"True  as  gospel.  Burnington  has  no  use  for  women, 
but  they  worship  him  from  afar." 

"I  wonder  why  he  came  to  hear  a  woman  speak," 
Olivia  said  thoughtfully. 

"That  beats  me!"  said  Lord  Sandring.  "You  spoke 
grandly  to-night.  I  wonder  what  he  thought  of  you." 

Olivia  did  not  show  any  anxiety  to  know  the  great 
man's  verdict,  but  even  she,  who  was  almost  entirely 
free  from  personal  vanity,  was  secretly  impressed  by 
the  fact  that  Burnington  had  sat  and  listened  to  her — 
a  woman — for  over  an  hour. 

A  few  days  later  she  received  the  following  note : 

2  a,  Cadogan  Square,  S.W. 

Feb'y.  ifth. 

Madam, — /  have  not  the  honour  of  knowing  you,  but 
I  heard  your  first  lecture  the  other  night  at  the  small 
Queen's  Hall.  You  are  evidently  a  genuine  believer 
in  the  power  you  claim  to  possess.  I  should  like  to  have 
a  few  words  with  you  if  you  have  no  objection.  As  I 
prefer  not  to  set  foot  in  the  Psychic  Healing  Bureau — 
not  that  I  have  anything  against  it — I  should  be  glad  to 
know  whether  you  could  appoint  a  time  to  see  me  some- 
where  else.  I  should  not  detain  you  for  more  than  a  few 
moments. 

Believe  me,  Madam,  yours  faithfully, 

HECTOR  BURNINGTON. 

Olivia  laid  down  this  letter,  after  she  had  read  it  care 
fully  twice,  and  sat  wondering  for  a  moment.  She  felt 
both  surprised  and  interested;  she  also  felt  flattered. 
The  General's  reputation  was  enormous.  He  was  re 
garded  by  his  countrymen  as  their  supreme  efficient,  a 
man  who  had  the  strength  and  the  intelligence  to  pull 
whole  countries  out  of  messes,  to  quiet  rebellions  by 


110  SNAKE-BITE 

his  mere  presence  on  the  scene  of  them,  to  set  staggering 
protectorates  firmly  on  their  feet.  He  had  transformed 
a  war.  What  had  he  not  done?  But  Olivia's  peculiar 
interest  in  him  sprang  from  report  of  his  personality  and 
from  her  remembrance  of  his  many  adventures,  which 
had  been  recounted  in  the  newspapers  of  the  world.  The 
mysteries  of  the  East  hung  about  him  like  heavy  odours. 
Far  away  he  had  built  up  his  reputation  in  regions  whose 
mere  names  suggested  romance.  He  had  ruled  over  peo 
ples  whose  wild  eyes  had  never  looked  on  our  compli 
cated  civilisations,  and  had  inspired  them  with  rever 
ence  and  awe.  He  spoke  strange  dialects  of  the  East, 
and,  a  master  of  travesty,  had  travelled  as  a  blood  com 
rade  with  men  who  would  have  slain  him  had  they  known 
who  he  was.  And  he  was  reputed  to  be  strangely  self 
less  and  heroic,  and  threaded  through  with  a  strain  of 
fatalistic  mysticism.  He  stood  out  from  his  nation  as 
something  portentously  invulnerable;  a  soul  of  bronze  in 
a  body  of  bronze;  supremely  successful  but  cold  and 
indifferent  in  his  success,  alive  not  to  love,  not  to  pity, 
not  to  fear,  not  to  enjoy,  but  to  get  things  done. 

"Why  does  this  man  want  to  see  me?"  Olivia  asked 
herself. 

And  the  quiet  firmness  of  her  was  slightly  shaken.  A 
hidden  string  vibrated  for  just  a  moment.  She  sat 
down  and  answered  the  letter,  suggesting  that  the  Gen 
eral  should  come  to  the  little  furnished  flat  which  she 
had  taken  in  Buckingham  Palace  Mansions  on  the  fol 
lowing  evening  at  six  o'clock.  She  was  usually  at  the 
Bureau  till  after  five.  In  reply  to  her  note  she  received 
on  the  following  day  a  telephone  message,  taken  by  the 
porter  of  the  mansions  when  she  was  out.  The  message 
was: 

"The  gentleman  Miss  Olivia  Tralll  kindly  wrote  to 
will  call  on  her  at  six  o'clock/' 

When  she  had  read  it — she  only  did  so  at  a  quarter  to 
six — she  sent  down  a  message  asking  the  porter  to  bring 
up  anyone  who  called  at  six.  She  was  not  expecting 


THE  LOST  FAITH  111 

any  visitor  but  Sir  Hector.  After  her  day's  work  she 
usually  rested,  unless  she  had  to  deliver  a  lecture.  Lord 
Sandring  would  have  gladly  "run"  her  in  his  social  cir 
cle,  but  she  had  resisted  his  kind  importunities. 

At  five  minutes  to  six  when  she  was  in  her  small  sit 
ting-room  awaiting  Sir  Hector  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
bell.  She  went  to  answer  the  door,  and  found  Fernol 
West  with  some  flowers  for  her,  and  a  new  book  by 
Rabindranath  Tagore,  which  he  kne-\y  she  wanted  to 
read. 

"I  didn't  wait  for  the  lift.  I  just  ran  up/'  he  said. 
"May  I  sit  with  you  for  a  bit?" 

He  saw  that  she  hesitated. 

"You're  busy." 

"No;  come  in,  Fernol." 

She  shut  the  door. 

"I'm  waiting  for  someone  who  is  coming  to  see  me  at 
six.  It  is  Sir  Hector  Burnington." 

"Burnington  coming  here!"  exclaimed  Fernol.  "Do 
you  know  him  ?" 

"No.    He  wrote  to  me." 

"Is  he  ill?" 

His  eyes  shone. 

"If  he's  ill  and  you  cure  him  the  whole  of  England 
will  believe  in  you.  It  will  silence  even  those  beastly 
doctors.  They've  begun  to  attack  you  furiously  al 
ready.  Have  you  seen  to-night's  Messenger?" 

"No." 

"There's  an  article  by  Sir  Mervyn  Butler  called  "Hu 
man  Credulity  and  the  Charlatans,"  warning  people 
against  you.  Oh,  it's  made  me  so  mad.  These  wretched 
fellows  who  can't " 

"Don't  abuse  people.    That  only  does  you  harm." 

"I  know.  But  it's  difficult  when  I  know  what  you 
are,  when  I'm  a  breathing  proof  of  your  powers.  Is  he 
ill?  Is  Burnington  ill?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"It  may  seem  inhuman,  but  I  would  give  anything 


SNAKE-BITE 

for  him  to  be  downright  sick,  real  bad,  so  that  you  might 
cure  him.  Ah,  it  would  go  all  over  the  world  in  a  mo 
ment — such  a  cure  as  that !" 

"Fernol,"  Olivia  said,  looking  at  him  steadily.  "I 
hope  you  will  never  be  fanatical  about  me.  I  don't  like 
fanaticism  at  all.  I  think  it  is  unhealthy.  And  I  want 
to  feel  that  there's  nothing  unhealthy  in  you." 

Before  he  could  answer  the  front  door  bell  rang. 

"There  he  is!"  said  the  boy,  with  an  eager  start.  "Oh, 
I  oughtn't  to  be  here." 

"You  need  not  speak  of  his  coming.  I  should  be 
sorry  to  have  a  great  name  used.  Now  you  might  let 
him  in." 

As  Fernol  turned  to  go  down  the  little  hall,  he  whis 
pered,  with  a  sort  of  laughing  worship, 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  want  him  to  be  ill,  desperately 
ill!" 

A  minute  later  he  opened  the  sitting-room  door,  showed 
a  strongly  flushed,  excited  face,  and  said, 

"Miss  Traill,  Sir  Hector  Burnington  has  come  to 
see  you." 

Then  he  stood  against  the  wall,  rather  like  a  soldier 
at  attention,  and  gave  room  for  the  famous  general  to 
pass. 

Seen  close  in  the  bright  light  from  electric  burners 
Sir  Hector  looked  almost  gigantic  in  height.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  just  over  six  foot  three.  His 
face  was  unusually  dark  in  complexion  for  an  English 
man  ;  his  dark  brown  smooth  hair  was  parted  in  the  mid 
dle  above  a  very  broad  and  very  low  forehead ;  his  nose 
was  straight  and  short,  his  chin  firm  but  not  aggressive, 
his  mouth  determined  with  tightly  closed  full  lips.  His 
ears  were  large,  were  set  close  to  his  head  and  indicated 
power.  His  figure  was  lean,  and  his  tread  was  firm  and 
striding.  But  in  that  first  moment  of  meeting  Olivia 
looked  at  his  eyes.  They  were  very  peculiar  eyes,  set 
far  apart,  long,  in  colour  green  and  brown — some  people 
called  them  "greeny  brown" — with  unusually  small 


THE  LOST  FAITH  113 

pupils.  And  there  was  a  curious  glazed  look  in  them, 
which  suggested  not  dulness  of  intellect  but  secrecy,  a 
remoteness  that  somehow  was  watchful.  Impossible  to 
look  into  them!  Yet  they  seemed  to  look  into  you  as 
well  as  beyond  you.  On  his  upper  lip  the  general  wore 
a  thick  brown  moustache  with  a  marked  curve  in  it.  His 
eyebrows  were  almost  straight. 

He  strode  in,  looking  imperturbable,  grave  and  quite 
un-self-conscious,  and  held  out  a  long  brown  hand. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Traill.  Very  goodj>f  you  to  see 
me.  What's  your  friend's  name?" 

"Fernol  West,"  said  Olivia. 

The  general  shook  hands  with  Fernol,  neither  cor 
dially  nor  coldly. 

"I'll  be  off  now,"  said  Fernol  to  Olivia. 

She  knew  he  was  simply  longing  to  stay,  but  she  did 
not  like  to  keep  him  as  an  appointment  had  been  made 
with  her  visitor,  so  she  said  good-bye. 

"Good-bye — sir,"  said  Fernol  to  Sir  Hector. 

"Good-bye." 

Fernol  turned  to  go,  took  two  steps  towards  the  door, 
hesitated,  then  abruptly  swung  round. 

"If  you'll  allow  me  I  should  like  to  tell  you  that  when 
I  was  broken  to  pieces,  she  put  me  together  again.  They 
attack  her.  They've  attacked  her  to-day  in  a  paper 
called  the  Messenger.  But  I  was  in  hell  and  she's  made 
life  worth  living  for  me.  I  swear  it." 

He  paused.  There  was  something  almost  violent  in 
his  look  and  manner.  He  covered  Sir  Hector  with  an 
eager,  searching  glance. 

"Ah!"  said  Sir  Hector. 

And  he  turned  his  strange  glazed  eyes  on  the  lad. 

Fernol  waited  an  instant  more,  then  went  out,  shutting 
the  door  rather  sharply  behind  him. 

"I  did  him  good,  so,  as  he's  a  chivalrous  lad,  he  sings 
up  in  praise  of  me,"  said  Olivia  simply.  "Please  sit 
down." 

Sir  Hector  sat  down  without  any  comment. 


SNAKE-BITE 

"Allow  me  to  tell  you  the  reason  of  my  visit,5'  he  said. 
"I  heard  of  you  some  two  years  ago.  I  know  the  States 
pretty  well  and  I  see  American  papers.  As  I  happen  to 
be  interested  in  various  things  which  most  English  people 
deride,  and  as  I  believe  in  a  great  deal  which  untravelled 
islanders,  profoundly  ignorant  and  proud  of  being  so, 
deny,  I  attended  your  first  lecture — as  I  mentioned  in 
my  note.  I  wished  rather  to  obtain  an  impression  of  you 
than  to  listen  to  what  you  had  to  say.  The  impression  I 
obtained  was  that  you  thoroughly  believe  in  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Olivia,  looking  steadily  up  at  him 
from  her  chair.  "I  have  absolute  faith  in  my  power  of 
healing." 

"Without  it  you  could  probably  not  heal  even  a  slight 
nervous  complaint,"  returned  Sir  Hector. 

"I  don't  think  I  could,  though  I  am  sure  I  have  some 
exceptional  physical  gift.  It  may  be  a  gift  of  conveyance, 
which  most  people  lack." 

"Ah!"  said  the  general. 

He  stared  either  at  her,  or  beyond  her — she  was  not 
quite  sure  which — for  a  moment,  then  he  continued,  in 
his  deep  and  steady  voice, 

"I  am  not  married,  and  I  live  at  present — I'm  looking 
into  the  condition  of  our  artillery  at  the  moment — with 
my  only  near  relative,  my  unmarried  sister.  She  is  four 
years  older  than  I  am — sixty.  She  was,  in  my  opinion, 
the  finest  horsewoman  in  the  British  Isles,  but  eight  years 
ago,  when  I  was  in  Afghanistan,  she  had  an  accident  in 
the  hunting  field.  Her  horse,  a  big  Irish  hunter,  fell  at 
a  wall  and  rolled  over  on  her.  She  was  kicked  on  the 
back  of  the  head.  Since  then  she  has  suffered  from 
agonising  headaches.  They  come  on  about  once  in  ten 
days.  The  pain  at  first  is  slight,  gradually  increases — 
she  often  keeps  about  for  some  hours  after  the  premoni 
tory  symptoms — and  finally  becomes  terrific.  Then  she 
goes  to  bed  and  stays  there,  usually  from  twenty-four  to 
thirty-six  hours.  After  that  the  pain  subsides  and  ceases. 


THE  LOST  FAITJI  115 

Of  course,  she  has  had  all  the  big  doctors.  And  she's  got 
one — a  pleasant  fellow,  Mervyn  Butler  by  name — who 
attends  her  regularly.  He  doesn't  do  her  any  good  and 
she  knows  it.  But  he  does  something,  and  I  suppose, 
when  one's  in  such  a  condition,  it's  a  sort  of  relief  to  know 
something's  being  done.  (I've  never  been  ill  in  my 
life,  so  I'm  no  judge.)  It  isn't  pleasant  to  me  to  see 
my  sister  under  these  perpetual  attacks.  And  they'll  cer 
tainly  break  her  up  in  time  if  they  aren't  stopped.  I 
should  like  you  to  try  to  stop  them." 

"I  will  gladly  do  so." 

"Ah!"  said  Sir  Hector,  with  his  peculiar  stare,  which 
suggested  to  Olivia  that  he  was  looking  out  over  some 
vast  expanse  in  the  foreground  of  which  she  was  set, 
an  almost  infinitesimal  figure. 

"That  is  very  kind  of  you.  Thank  you,"  he  answered, 
after  the  pause  which  was  characteristic  of  him.  "But 
there's  a  drawback." 

"What  is  it?  Her  doctor  would " 

"Her  doctor  doesn't  matter.  He  doesn't  cure  her  and 
I  shall  have  no  consideration  for  him.  He  fails  in  his 
job.  And  no  consideration  should  be  shown  to  failures ; 
otherwise  you  create  a  sort  of  forcing  house  for  the  culti 
vation  of  inefficients.  My  sister  is  the  drawback." 

"Why  is  that?" 

"She's  the  most  sceptical  woman  in  England  about 
anything  mysterious.  She  likes  hard  facts,  things  ascer 
tained  by  science." 

"Hard  facts.    And  you?"  said  Olivia. 

"I've  travelled  widely,  and  she  hasn't,"  returned  the 
general.  "I  judge  by  results.  My  sister's  doctor  knows 
a  great  many  medical  facts  and  is  totally  unable  to  cure 
her  headaches.  He  and  his  facts  are,  therefore,  quite 
useless  to  my  sister.  But,  as  women  are  remarkably  un 
reasonable,  she  pays  him  heavy  fees  to  go  on  not  curing 
her.  Multitudes  of  women  in  England  do  exactly  the 
same.  My  sister  will  probably  be  entirely  sceptical  of 
your  power  to  do  her  any  good  if  you  come  to  her  as 


116  SNAKE-BITE 

a  healer  .  .  .  because  she  is  ill.  And  her  scepticism  might 
frustrate  your  attempt  to  heal,  I  daresay." 

"Perhaps  it  might,"  said  Olivia.  "But,  then,  what 
is  your  plan?" 

"How  do  you  know  I  have  a  plan?" 

"I  don't  think  you  would  have  come  here  without 


one." 


"Ah!" 

Again  the  stare  and  the  pause — a  long  pause  this 
time.  Then  the  general  said: 

"I  told  you  that  these  headaches  return  every  ten  days, 
or  so,  with  remarkable  regularity.  One  knows  when  they 
are  due.  What  I  wish  to  do  is  this.  I  intend  to  arrange 
for  a  dinner  party  at  my  house  on  a  certain  evening. 
I  shall  know  pretty  well  when  to  fix  it.  Even  if  my 
sister's  headache  has  started  she'll  be  down.  She  never 
gives  in  till  she's  obliged  to.  I  want  you,  if  you  will,  to 
come  in  the  evening  after  dinner.  (I  hope  another  time 
you  will  honour  me  by  dining. )  My  sister  will  meet  you 
socially,  will  be  able  to  observe  you  and  see  what  you 
are,  without  connecting  you  with  herself.  It  is  possible 
that  you  may  be  able  to  impress  her  with  confidence  in 
your  bona  fides.  If  so,  the  ground  will  be  prepared  for 
the  attempt  at  a  cure.  Then  the  cure  might  be  attempted 
under  favourable  conditions." 

"I  am  quite  ready  to  come,"  said  Olivia.  "But  please 
tell  me  one  thing.  Do  you  believe  I  can  make  such  a 
cure?" 

"I  think  it  quite  possible." 

He  stared  into  the  distance. 

"People  are  often  sceptical  from  sheer  colossal  ignor 
ance,  or  they  are  afraid  of  seeming  superstitious.  Both 
superstition  and  scepticism  may  grow  from  the  same 
root — the  root,  by  the  way,  of  nearly  all  evil.  I  may 
write  to  you  then  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"Do  you  object  to  cigarette  smoke  in  your  drawing- 
room?" 


THE  LOST  FAITH  117 

"Dear  no!" 

The  general  lighted  up,  after  offering  Olivia  a  ciga 
rette,  which  she  refused. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I  wish  to  say  a  word  or  two  in  con 
fidence.  I  shall  probably  be  offered  almost  immediately 
one  of  the  highest  posts  a  man  of  British  birth  can  fill. 
For  years  it  has  been  the  ambition  of  my  life  to  get  this 
particular  post,  because  I  know  I  am  peculiarly  fitted  for 
it.  It's  a  job  I  could  do  better  than  any  other  man  I 
can  think  of.  But  it  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  have 
a  woman  at  my  side  if  I  accepted  it.  My  sister  is  at 
present  far  too  ill  to  undertake  the  position.  She  must 
be  made  sound." 

In  saying  the  last  sentence  the  general  seemed  to  be 
giving  an  order  to  someone. 

"The  doctors  can't  do  it,"  he  added. 

"And  if  I  fail  in  my  job?"  asked  Olivia. 

"H'm!"  said  the  general. 

A  faint  smile  flickered  over  his  face. 

"You'll  kick  me  out  of  your  consideration  into  the 
limbo  where  the  charlatans  dwell,  I  suppose?"  said  Olivia. 

"I  shall  be  deeply  obliged  to  you  if  you  succeed,"  he 
replied. 

He  got  up. 

"The  matter's  quite  clear  now,  I  think." 

"Quite  clear.    But  may  I  ask  you  something ?" 

"Please  do." 

"Why,  when  I  spoke  just  now  about  hard  facts,  did  you 
say,  'I've  travelled  widely  and  she  hasn't'  ?" 

"I  merely  meant  to  convey  that  in  travelling  one  conies 
up  against  many  people  with  peculiar  gifts,  and  that, 
therefore,  one  is  not  so  disposed  to  deny  possibilities  as 
those  who  seldom  move  out  of  the  region  in  which  they 
were  born.  The  English  have  some  remarkable  gifts 
as  a  nation;  but  their  limitations  are  also  remarkable. 
My  sister  is  very  English.  She  hates  humbug.  Having 
only  just  come  over  here,  you  may  not  know  yet  that 
in  an  English  mouth  the  word  humbug  often  covers  just 


118  SN.4KE-BITE 

those  very  things  which  are  most  worthy  of  minute  in 
vestigation.     Ah !" 

He  stared  down  at  her  and,  for  a  moment,  there  seemed 
to  Olivia  to  be  something  piercing  in  the  expression  of 
his  strangely  detached  eyes.  He  held  out  his  hand.  She 
got  up  and  took  it. 

"If  your  friend,  Mr.  Fernol  West,  would  care  to  come 
to  my  house  with  you  when  you  come,  I  should  be  very 
glad  to  see  him,"  said  the  general.  "Good-bye." 

He  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room,  striding  with 
long  loose  limbs  which  looked  as  if  they  were  made  to 
grip  a  great  war  horse. 

Six  days  later  Olivia  received  a  note  from  her  visitor 
asking  her  if  she  would  come  to  his  house  the  following 
evening  at  half -past  nine;  in  a  postscript  was  added: 

PS.    (fl  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  Mr.  West,  too" 

Olivia  wrote  to  say  she  would  come  and  would  give 
Fernol  the  message.  She  believed  that  she  knew  why 
Fernol  was  invited.  Miss  Burnington  was  sceptical; 
Fernol  was  an  almost  fanatical  believer.  The  general 
knew  that.  Olivia  had  already  realised  that  he  was  a 
man  who  usually  had  a  purpose  behind  what  he  did. 

Fernol  was  overjoyed  when  she  gave  him  the  invi 
tation,  and  on  the  way  to  Cadogan  Square  on  the  fol 
lowing  evening  he  expressed  his  feelings  with  animation. 
His  chivalry  had  been  hurt  by  Olivia's  reception  in  Lon 
don.  So  far  her  visit  had  not  been  a  great  success.  Not 
many  people  had  consulted  her,  and  the  attacks  upon 
her,  led  by  Sir  Mervyn  Butler,  had  been  fierce.  In  a 
certain  very  well-known  weekly  paper  it  had  been  round 
ly  asserted  that  American  charlatans  ought  not  to  be 
allowed  to  prey  upon  the  gullible  English  public,  and  that 
the  powers  of  the  police  ought  to  be  extended  if  they 
were  not  already  sufficient  to  deal  with  such  people  in 
a  fitting  manner.  Olivia's  name  had  not  been  mentioned 
in  the  article,  but  it  was  obvious  at  whom  the  arrows 
were  aimed.  And  a  sentence  in  which  "Pernicious  busy- 
bodies  whose  brain  power  is  as  low  as  their  rank  is  high" 


THE  LOST  FAITH  119 

were  gibetted  was  undoubtedly  meant  for  Lord  Sandring. 

"I  like  Lord  Sandring,"  said  the  boy  to  Olivia  in  the 
taxicab.  "And  he's  worth  all  these  beastly  journalists 
and  doctors  put  together.  But  I  rather  wish  you  hadn't 
come  over  under  his  auspices.  I've  found  out  that  they 
laugh  at  him  and  the  Bureau  in  London." 

"I  dare  say  they  do,"  said  Olivia's  calm  voice. 

"Yes,  but  I  mean  he's  really  made  some  bad  mistakes. 
He's  made  claims  without  proving  them.  He's  had  some 
rank  failures  connected  with  his  Bureau.  I  can't  bear 
to  see  all  that  come  back  upon  you.  Besides,  it  sets  up  a 
regular  wave  of  unbelief." 

He  broke  off,  then  said  in  an  excited  voice : 

"I  count  a  lot  on  this  evening.  If  Sandring  has  done 
you  harm — of  course  without  meaning  to — I  count  on 
Burnington  to  set  you  where  you  ought  to  be.  I  don't 
ask  you  to  tell  me  why  he  called  on  you,  or  why  he  asked 
us  to-night,  but,  of  course,  I  know  it  must  be  something 
to  do  with  your  lecture.  You  must  have  made  a  fine 
impression  on  him.  And  he's  a  thundering  great  man. 
It's  grand  of  him  to  ask  me,  and  I  can't  think  why  he's 
done  it.  Can  you?" 

"He  didn't  say,"  was  Olivia's  quiet  answer. 

"If  only  he  could  fall  sick  and  you  could  cure  him !  I 
would  give  anything  for  that." 

"I  don't  like  to  hear  you  wish  sickness  for  anyone, 
Fernol.  That's  the  wrong  sort  of  mind  action.  Sir 
Hector  Burnington  has  never  been  ill  in  his  life.  My 
wish  for  him  is  that  he  never  may  be." 

"I  know  it's  all  wrong  of  me,  but  don't  you  see " 

"I  never  want  anyone  to  wish  an  unclean  thing  be 
cause  of  me." 

"Unclean!"  cried  Fernol,  as  if  stung. 

"Yes,  Fernol.  I  call  it  unclean  of  the  mind  to  wish 
evil  to  anyone  for  any  reason. 

"I  shall  never  be  selfless  like  you,"  he  said  almost 
sulkily. 


120  SNAKE-BITE 

And  he  did  not  speak  again  till  they  reached  the  gen 
eral's  house. 

As  a  footman  opened  the  door  of  a  large  drawing- 
room  on  the  first  floor  Olivia  heard  a  murmur  of  con 
versation  and  was  conscious  of  a  very  unusual  feeling. 
Perhaps  she  was  not  quite  sincere  with  herself  in  mentally 
calling  it  "excitement" ;  perhaps  nervousness  would  have 
been  the  right  name  for  it.  She  knew  that  it  was  caused 
by  something  in  Sir  Hector's  personality,  by  the  expecta 
tion  of  a  great  man  who  had  impressed  her  with  the 
sense  of  his  ruthless  bigness.  Since  she  had  met  him  she 
quite  understood  why  he  managed  to  make  the  men  under 
him  work  up  to  the  very  limit  of  their  capacity.  She  felt 
that  she  was  about  to  be  tested  as  she  had  not  been  tested 
hitherto.  And  a  slight  anxiety  crept  through  her.  She 
did  not  like  it,  and  instinctively  she  put  her  head  a  little 
back,  sticking  forward  her  chin,  as  she  walked  into  the 
room,  followed  closely  by  Fernol. 

"Miss  Olivia  Traill— Mr.  Fernol  West,"  said  the 
footman. 

And  immediately  there  was  a  silence  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

Sir  Hector  met  them,  shook  them  by  the  hand,  and 
took  them  to  a  tall  woman,  with  thickly  waving  white 
hair,  who  was  getting  up  from  a  sofa  by  the  fire. 

"Let  me  introduce  my  sister." 

Olivia  looked  at  the  pale,  lined  but  handsome  face  of 
her  hostess,  a  face  marked  with  the  impress  of  suffering, 
and  at  once  lost  her  feeling  of  anxiety.  Miss  Burnington 
said  a  kind  word  or  two,  in  a  cordial,  yet  strictly  non 
committal  manner,  then  turned  to  make  the  new-comers 
known  to  her  other  guests,  Mrs.  Harford,  Lady  Pang- 
bourne,  Colonel  Lumley,  and  Sir  Mervyn  Butler. 

At  the  mention  of  the  last  name  Fernol's  young  face 
was  flooded  with  indignant  blood.  This  was  the  famous 
doctor  who  had  attacked  Olivia  in  the  Messenger.  Of 
course,  the  Burningtons  were  not  aware  of  that  or  they 
would  never  have  arranged  a  meeting  between  the  two. 


THE  LOST  FAITH 

Making  a  strong  effort  at  self-control  Fernol  stared  at 
the  enemy,  and  saw  a  good-looking,  clean-shaven  man, 
with  a  massive  head  covered  with  snow-white  hair,  deep- 
set  yellow  eyes,  and  a  smiling  sarcastic  mouth.  Then  he 
found  himself — he  scarcely  knew  how — in  a  corner  near 
a  grand  piano,  talking  with  Mrs.  Harford,  a  pretty 
woman,  with  a  worn-out  face,  bright,  quickly  glancing 
eyes,  and  a  pathetic  smile,  the  wife  of  a  well-known 
politician.  She  got  him  in  less  than  five  minutes  on  to 
the  subject  of  Olivia. 

"The  general  sprang  her  on  us  as  a  surprise/*  she  said. 
"Do  tell  me  about  her.  She's  had  quite  a  bad  Press  over 
here." 

Fernol  took  up  the  cudgels.  Mrs.  Harford  listened, 
at  first  with  indulgence,  then  with  swiftly  growing  in 
terest. 

"It's  a  great  pity  she's  let  Lord  Sandring  nobble  her," 
she  said  presently.  "He's  got  so  hopelessly  wrong  with 
the  doctors." 

She  glanced  at  Sir  Mervyn,  who  at  the  moment  was 
sitting  with  Colonel  Lumley,  a  handsome  man  of  not 
more  than  thirty-six,  with  a  sharply  intelligent  soldier's 
face,  and  was  taking  very  deliberate  stock  of  the  woman 
he  had  so  recently  thrashed  in  an  article. 

"I  hate  doctors,"  said  Fernol,  in  a  very  low,  very 
fierce  voice.  "Oh,  I'm  sorry!" 

"Millie  Pangbourne  seems  interested,"  said  Mrs.  Har 
ford.  "But  she's  interested  in  everybody  who  makes  a 
noise." 

"A  noise?"  said  Fernol. 

"In  the  world!  If  you  don't  she  physically  can't  trou 
ble  about  you.  Her  eyes  mechanically  refuse  to  see  you. 
She's  trained  them  to  it,  I  suppose." 

Lady  Pangbourne,  a  dark,  smart,  pale  and  puffy 
woman,  with  self-conscious  eyes,  was  engaged  in  a  rat 
tling  conversation  with  Olivia.  She  did  all  the  rattling. 
It  was  plain  to  see  that  Sir  Hector's  "surprise"  had  given 
her  impetus.  The  general  and  his  sister  were  in  the 


SNAKE-BITE 

group,  and  Fernol  saw  that  Miss  Burnington  was  watch 
ing  Olivia  with  close  attention,  and  that,  while  doing  so, 
occasionally  she  winced,  as  if  flicked  sharply  by  whip 
cord,  shut  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  and  compressed  her 
pale  lips. 

"She's  got  one  of  her  horrible  headaches  coming  on," 
observed  Mrs.  Harford.  "She  oughtn't  to  be  up.  But 
she's  almost  as  iron  in  resolution  as  her  brother.  Fortu 
nately  for  him  he's  got  iron  health  too — never  been  ill  in 
his  life." 

"Oh,  does  Miss  Burnington  suffer  from  headaches?" 

"She's  a  martyr  to  them,  a  real  martyr.  Sir  Mervyn 
is  her  doctor." 

"Then  why  doesn't  he  cure  her  of  them?"  said  Fernol. 
She  caught  his  boyish  sneer  on  the  wing,  as  it  were,  and 
gave  it  a  faint  smile. 

"For  the  best  of  reasons,"  she  murmured.  "Because 
he  doesn't  know  how  to." 

"She  could !"  said  Fernol. 

"Can  that  be  why  she's  here?"  said  Mrs.  Harford. 

"The  general  always  has  a  purpose "  She  broke  off. 

"It  would  be  just  like  him,"  she  concluded  after  an  in 
stant. 

At  this  moment  Miss  Burnington  shivered,  and,  los 
ing  her  self-control  for  a  second,  put  a  thin  hand  to  the 
back  of  her  head.  Sir  Mervyn  got  up. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  in  a  weighty  agreeable  voice, 
"I  see  you  are  suffering.  Now  do  forget  about  us.  Go 
up  to  bed  and  just  do  what  I  advised  you  with  the " 

Before  he  had  finished  she  had  put  her  hand  down 
and  was  smiling. 

"No,  no!   What's  that,  Lady  Pangbourne?" 

"But,  dear,  you  really  look " 

"What  were  you  saying?" 

"I  forget — something  about  Boston.  Miss  Traill,  why 
don't  you  show  us  what  you  can  do  with  poor  Miss  Burn 
ington  ?" 


THE  LOST  FAITfl[  123 

As  Lady  Pangbourne  said  this  she  looked  as  alert  as  a 
weasel,  and  put  her  head  on  one  side. 

"Sir  Mervyn  won't  mind.    Will  you,  Sir  Mervyn?" 

The  sarcastic  lips  smiled. 

"I  should  be  very  much  interested  to  see  an  exhibition 
of  Miss  Traill's  healing  force." 

Olivia  sat  quite  still  for  a  moment  looking  at  Miss 
Burnington.  It  seemed  to  her  just  then  that  she  was 
back  at  her  old  school.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  saw  Lily 
convulsed.  And  there  came  upon  her  that  irresistible 
feeling  of  power  to  heal,  of  necessity  to  exercise  it,  that 
had  long  ago  revealed  to  her  what  she  was  intended 
to  do  in  the  world.  She  remembered  what  Sir  Hector 
had  said  about  the  scepticism  of  his  sister,  about  the  im 
portance  of  preparing  the  ground.  But  something  within 
her  swept  away  caution.  She  felt  too  strong,  too  certain 
of  herself  just  then  to  be  cautious.  She  opened  her  eyes, 
and  they  rested  on  the  face  of  Sir  Mervyn  Butler,  who 
was  looking  at  her  with  an  expression  of  half  amused, 
half  contemptuous  satire.  No  doubt  he  thought  that 
her  silence,  her  closing  of  the  eyes,  were  calculated  ef 
fects,  tricks  of  the  Sibyl  designed  to  create  an  impression 
on  the  foolish.  His  face  said  so  plainly.  Sir  Hector 
was  watching  her,  too,  with  his  remote  and  yet  pene 
trating  gaze.  She  looked  at  Miss  Burnington. 

"I  never  try  to  heal  people  in  public,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Very  wise  of  you,  Miss  Traill,"  said  Sir  Mervyn. 

"But "  She  paused.  Then  she  said  to  Miss  Burn 
ington,  whose  face  was  twisted  with  agony : 

"I  know  I  could  do  you  good  if  you  were  able  to  be 
lieve  in  me.  Can  you  believe  in  me  ?" 

Miss  Burnington  evidently  made  a  great  effort  to  con 
trol  herself.  Her  thin  tall  body  stiffened  under  the  in 
fluence  of  the  mind. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  care,"  she  said.  "I'm  sorry 
I  am  making  such  a  fool  of  myself.  But  I'm  really 
afraid  there's  nothing  to  be  done  for  these  tiresome 
headaches." 


SNAKE-BITE 

"I  can  cure  you  entirely  in  time,"  said  Olivia,  "if  you 
will  only  help  me  by  believing  I  can." 

Miss  Burnington  forced  a  smile. 

"I  should  be  only  too  thankful  to  anyone "  she  be 
gan. 

She  broke  off  and  got  up  from  her  sofa. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  must  go  up  to  bed,"  she  said. 
"The  pain's  too  severe.  Do  forgive  me  for  making  such 
a  fuss.  Hector,  I'm  quite  ashamed  of  myself." 

"Let  me  take  you  up,"  said  Sir  Mervyn. 

"No,  no, — I  don't  want  to  break  up  the  party.  Good 
night.  Good  night." 

She  went  towards  the  door.  The  general  looked  at 
Olivia.  She  rose  and  followed  Miss  Burnington. 

"Please  let  me  come  with  you." 

"It's  too  kind  of  you,  but " 

She  turned  towards  Olivia. 

"Well,"  she  said.  "If  you  really  .  .  .  just  to  my  bed 
room  door." 

They  went  out  together. 

"Oh,  but  I  wanted  to  see  it  done!"  said  Lady  Pang- 
bourne  in  a  frustrated  voice.  "I  thought  they  just  put 
their  hands  on  people  and  the  pain  fled  away." 

"You  are  mixing  Miss  Traill  up  with  your  recollections 
of  the  New  Testament,  Lady  Pangbourne,"  said  Sir 
Mervyn.  "These  good  ladies  from  the  United  States 
are  not  all  direct  descendants  of  the  Apostles." 

"May  I  please  tell  you  what  Miss  Traill  did  for  me?" 
said  Fernol. 

His  cheeks  were  burning  and  he  clenched  his  hands. 
He  came  and  stood  before  the  doctor.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  Olivia  had  accompanied  Miss  Burnington 
into  her  bedroom  and  shut  the  door.  A  fire  was  burn 
ing  in  the  grate.  Miss  Burnington  felt  vaguely  for  the 
electric  light  switch. 

"No;  don't  turn  it  on,"  said  Olivia.  "Let  us  sit  by 
the  fire." 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H 

She  drew  Miss  Burnington  down  gently  into  a  chair 
and  took  both  her  hands. 

"I  will  make  you  believe  in  me." 

The  firelight  flickered  over  her  strong  face.  Miss 
Burnington  looked  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  pain. 

"I'm  a  fearful  sceptic,"  she  said.    "I  can't  help  it." 

"Do  you  believe  Sir  Mervyn  Butler  can  cure  you?7' 

"Sir  Mervyn — oh,  no !" 

"Yet  you  call  him  in,  don't  you?" 

"Yes.    I  suppose  I've  a  faint  hope " 

"Have  a  little  hope  in  me.  That's  all  I  ask  of  you— 
yet." 

"Well,  I  do  believe  you're  a  very  kind  woman." 

"I  never  take  any  money.  I  only  wish  to  do  what  I 
was  intended  to  do  when  I  was  sent  into  the  world. 
We  are  only  at  ease  with  ourselves  when  we  do  that. 
Now  sit  quite  still.  Don't  say  anything  and  I  shall  very 
soon  make  you  much  better." 

Miss  Burnington  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  shut 
her  eyes. 

"The  touch  of  your  hands  is  certainly  very  strong  and 
very  soothing,"  she  murmured. 

It  was  half -past  eleven  when  Olivia  returned  to  the 
drawing-room.  She  found  Sir  Hector  alone  with  Fernol 
West.  He  looked  at  her  with,  she  thought,  a  sort  of 
severe  enquiry  when  she  came  into  the  room. 

"Your  sister  is  asleep,"  she  said. 

"That's  very  unusual.  Did  she  take  a  sleeping 
draught?" 

"No.  I  got  her  to  bed.  No  one  must  disturb  her.  I 
will  call  and  see  her  to-morrow.  Now,  Fernol,  we  must 
be  going." 

"I'll  have  a  taxicab  sent  for,"  said  the  general,  ring 
ing  the  bell. 

While  the  servant  was  getting  it,  they  stood  by  the  fire, 
and  Olivia  told  them  what  had  happened  in  the  bed 
room. 
x    "Your  sister  was  in  such  acute  pain,"  she  said,  "that 


126  SNAKE-BITE 

I  think  it  undermined  her  scepticism.  She  clung  to  me 
as  I  suppose  she  has  clung  to  her  doctor.  That  seemed  to 
be  enough — her  longing  to  be  helped.  Anyhow,  I  was 
able  to  diminish  the  pain,  and  finally  she  fell  asleep.  That 
is  a  step  on  the  way  to  a  cure." 

"I  am  immensely  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  general. 

"You've  done  a  lot  for  your  country,"  said  Olivia. 
"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  something  for  you." 

"If  you  cure  my  sister  you  will  have  done  a  great 
deal." 

When  he  said  that  Olivia  wondered  whether  he  was 
thinking  of  his  sister  or  of  himself.  His  words,  "She's 
got  to  be  made  sound,"  were  still  in  her  memory. 

"I'm  sure  you  are  very  fond  of  her,"  she  said,  almost 
appealingly.  "She's  a  very  brave  woman,  I  should 
think." 

"It  would  be  odd  if  she  were  a  coward,"  he  returned. 

The  footman  came  in. 

"The  taxicab  is  at  the  door,  sir." 

"I'll  take  you  down,"  said  the  general. 

He  came  out  bareheaded  on  to  the  pavement  and  helped 
Olivia  into  the  cab. 

"Good  night,"  he  said. 

His  large  hand  grasped  hers. 

"If  you  get  my  sister  right  Sir  Mervyn  will  hate  you." 

"Isn't  he  fond  of  your  sister?" 

"Very,  I  believe;  but  fonder  of  himself  as  a  sacred 
repository  of  medical  science.  Good  night,  Mr.  West. 
Sir  Mervyn  considers  you  a  neurotic,  but  you  are  an  ex 
cellent  fighter." 

He  turned  away  and  disappeared  into  the  house,  leav 
ing  the  footman  to  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

"I — a  neurotic !"  said  Fernol  indignantly  as  they  drove 
away.  "Sir  Mervyn  said  that  because  he  won't  have  it 
that  you  can  cure  anyone,  and  I  told  him,  I  told  them  all, 
how  you  had  cured  me.  I'm  glad  Sir  Hector  thinks  I 
can  fight.  He's  a  glorious  fellow.  All  England  looks  up 
to  him.  He  could  do  anything  for  you." 


THE  LOST  FAITH  127 

"I  djon't  want  him  to  do  anything  for  me,"  said 
Olivia. 

"No;  but  others  may  wish  for  you  more  than  you  wish 
for  yourself." 

And  then  he  fell  into  silence.  But  in  the  cab  Olivia 
could  feel  the  excitement  of  his  atmosphere,  and  the  doc 
tor's  verdict  "neurotic"  on  Fernol  stayed  somehow  dis 
agreeably  in  her  mind.  When  Fernol  had  first  come  to 
her  in  Boston  he  had  certainly  been  suffering  acutely 
from  what  the  nerve  doctors  generally  call  neurosis.  Did 
any  trace  of  that  old  malady  still  show  in  him,  per 
ceptible  to  the  trained  observer?  Or  was  Sir  Mervyn 
merely  malicious?  She  wondered  a  little.  Surely  she 
had  made  a  complete  cure  of  Fernol?  She  had  never 
really  doubted  it  till  this  moment.  She  was  not  sure  that 
she  doubted  it  now.  But  since  they  had  been  in  London 
she  had  noticed  once  or  twice.  .  .  . 

The  taxicab  stopped  at  the  door  of  Buckingham  Palace 
Mansions,  and  Olivia  said  good-bye  to  Fernol. 

After  a  hard  fight,  one  of  the  hardest  of  her  career, 
Olivia  conquered  Miss  Burnington's  headaches.  Her 
difficulty  in  doing  this  came,  she  believed,  from  the  pe 
culiar  mind  of  her  patient,  for  Sir  Hector's  diagnosis  of 
his  sister's  nature  had  proved  to  be  right.  She  found  it 
almost  impossible  to  believe  thoroughly  in  any  power 
which  partook  of  the  mysterious,  any  power  to  which  she 
could  not  attach  hard  facts  of  which  she  could  make  a 
list  for  the  benefit  of  herself  and  those  about  her.  When 
Olivia  had  once  in  the  course  of  argument  with  her 
quoted  Sir  Hector  as  an  example  of  partially  mysteriojus 
powers,  Miss  Burnington  had  disagreed  with  her. 

"My  brother  rules  men  because  he  knows  more  about 
their  jobs  than  they  do  themselves,"  she  said.  "He  is 
a  storehouse  of  knowledge." 

Olivia  could  not  gainsay  that.  But  she  tried  to  make 
Miss  Burnington  acknowledge  that  the  extraordinary  in 
fluence  which  the  general  exercised  over  men  was  par 
tially  due  to  something  totally  independent  of  knowledge, 


128  SNAKE-BITE 

to  a  force  born  in  him,  not  acquired  by  him,  a  force  felt 
by  everyone  but  not  to  be  explained  by  anyone. 

"Oh,  Hector  is  no  hypnotist,"  said  Miss  Burnington, 
with  a  touch  of  sarcasm.  "He  is  just  a  wonderfully  able 
man  with  a  remarkably  strong  character.  He  does  big 
things  because  he  knows.  There  you  have  the  secret  of 
his  power  over  men." 

"Then  it  isn't  a  secret,"  said  Olivia,  with  her  pleas 
ant,  strong  smile. 

And  she  set  herself  again  to  the  struggle  with  Miss 
Burnington's  malady;  and  she  won,  almost  in  despite  of 
Miss  Burnington;  almost,  but  not  quite,  for  Miss  Burn 
ington  was  longing  to  be  cured,  and  had  lost  all  faith  in 
the  doctors.  Perhaps  her  longing  helped  Olivia,  was  the 
weapon  which  put  her  scepticism  out  of  action.  Olivi'a 
believed  so,  and  was  thankful.  For  she  had  never  before 
wished  so  ardently  to  triumph  over  any  ill-health  as  over 
those  headaches  of  Miss  Burnington.  Sir  Hector's  in 
fluence  was  potent  upon  her,  that  influence  which  she  felt 
to  be  mysterious.  Like  the  men  who  worked  under  him, 
and  were  often  afraid  of  him,  she  wished,  even  longed, 
to  satisfy  him,  to  wring  from  him  a  "well  done."  Hitherto 
she  had  never  worked  to  win  the  approval  of  anyone. 
Her  efforts  had  been  made  because  they  were  necessary 
to  herself.  She  had  healed  as  an  artist  creates  to  satisfy 
an  imperious  need.  But  now  a  change  had  been  wrought 
in  her. 

"My  sister  must  be  made  sound." 

As  upon  the  scroll  in  her  room  at  the  Bureau  her  pa 
tients  saw  "Thy  faith  hath  saved  thee,"  so,  during  her 
fight  with  Miss  Burnington's  scepticism  and  ill-health, 
Olivia  saw  gleaming  before  her  mind's  eyes  those  words 
of  Sir  Hector.  She  had  received  her  order  from  this 
strange  man.  She  was  determined  to  carry  it  out.  And 
at  last  she  did  carry  it  out.  The  headaches  came  more 
rarely,  lasted  a  shorter  time  when  they  did  come,  became 
less  and  less  painful,  and  finally  ceased.  Two  months 
went  by  without  any  headache  at  all.  Miss  Burnington 


THE  LOST  FAITH  129 

looked,  as  all  her  friends  declared,  "a  different  creature." 
The  dread  which,  despite  her  almost  Spartan  courage, 
had  haunted  her  eyes  and  been  seen  of  men,  faded  from 
them.  A  day  came  when  she  ventured  to  say : 

"It  really  seems  as  if  I  might  consider  myself  cured/' 

She  was,  of  course,  deeply  grateful  to  Olivia  for  the 
extraordinary  kindness  and  assiduity  which  had  been 
shown  without  any  hope  of  a  reward.  She  had  indeed 
come  almost  to  love  Olivia.  Nevertheless,  so  strong  was 
her  ingrained  habit  of  mind,  she  could  not  be  fully  per 
suaded  that  the  cure  was  entirely  owing  to  Olivia's  power 
of  healing.  It  might  be  so.  The  facts  seemed  to  point 
that  way.  And  yet — might  it  not  be  a  mere  strange 
coincidence  that  she  began  to  get  better  only  when  Olivia 
came  into  her  life?  Might  not  some  physical  change  have 
been  at  work  which  happened  to  begin  manifesting  itself 
just  after  she  was  brought  into  contact  with  Olivia? 
Miss  Burnington  did  not  express  these  characteristic 
doubts  of  hers  to  anyone  except  her  brother.  But  they 
prevented  her  from  coming  out  into  the  open  as  a  whole 
hearted  champion  of  Olivia's  powers.  She  was  a  very 
sincere  woman.  Had  she  been  positive  that  Olivia,  and 
Olivia  only,  had  cured  her,  she  would  certainly  not  have 
hesitated  to  proclaim  the  faith  that  was  in  her.  As  it 
was  she  showed,  hand  in  hand  with  her  frank  and  freely 
spoken  of  gratitude  to  Olivia,  a  certain  reserve.  She 
could  not  help  it.  She  was  one  of  those  rare  women  who 
have  to  be  true  to  themselves.  She  was  not  sure,  and  so 
she  would  not  say  she  was  sure. 

This  slight  but  definite  holding  back  on  her  part  in 
furiated  Fernol  West.  And  he  spoke  hotly  about  it  to 
Olivia. 

"After  what  you've  done  it's  unfair,"  he  said.  "I  be 
lieve  it's  because  you're  a  woman." 

"I'm  quite  certain  it  isn't,"  said  Olivia.  "Miss 
Burnington  has  been  extraordinarily  kind  about  me." 

"If  Sir  Mervyn  Butler  had  done  for  her  what  you  have 


130  SNAKE-BITE 

done  she  would  have  told  everyone  in  London  what  a 
marvellous  doctor  he  was.  But  women  hate  to  give  credit 
to  a  woman.  I  can't  think  why.  Now,  if  it  had  been  the 
general  he  would  have  said  straight  out  that  you  had 
cured  him,  although  they  call  him  a  despiser  of  women. 
He's  great  enough  to  do  that." 

"I'm  quite  sufficiently  rewarded  for  what  I  have  been 
able  to  do,"  said  Olivia. 

"How  are  you  rewarded?  People  still  write  against 
you  over  here.  You  have  never  been  accepted  as  you 
were  in  America." 

"If  I  tell  you,  will  you  give  me  your  word  of  honour 
not  to  repeat  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Sir  Hector  has  told  me  that  he  is  convinced  his  sis 
ter's  restored  health  is  entirely  owing  to  me.  And  not 
only  that.  He  said  to  me  only  yesterday  that  if  he  were 
ever  ill  he  would  call  me  in  and  would  not  summon  a 
doctor." 

Fernol  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Did  he  say  that?"  he  said  at  last. 

There  was  something  so  peculiar  in  the  tone  of  his 
voice  that  Olivia  wondered. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "And  I  know  he  meant  it.  That  is 
reward  enough  for  me." 

"Did  he  give  you  his  word?" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Did  he  give  you  his  word  he  would  call  you  in  ?" 

"I  have  just  told  you  what  he  said.  Why  should  he 
give  his  word  ?  He  never  is  ill,  thank  God." 

"That's  just  it!"  said  Fernol  slowly.  "He  never  is 
.  So  what's  the  good  of  such  a  promise?" 

He  paused,  like  one  thinking  deeply,  brooding  almost. 
Then  he  said, 

"The  English  are  fearfully  slow  in  catching  on  to  big 
things  that  they're  unaccustomed  to,  aren't  they?  We 
are  more  open-minded  in  America.  Look  at  the  way 
you've  been  ignored  here,  except  when  you've  been 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  131 

libelled.  It  makes  me  sick.  I  should  like  to  give  them 
a  lesson." 

"Them?"  said  Olivia.    "Whom?" 

"The  people  over  here,  the  doctors  and  the  whole  lot 
of  them.  They  want  it  badly." 

"Oh,  I  shall  soon  be  going  back  to  America.  And 
it's  high  time  you  went.  Your  father  wants  you  to  help 
him,  and  you  ought  to  be  at  work." 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  at  him  rather  narrowly. 

"I  don't  like  to  see  you  idle,  Fernol." 

"Do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me  ?"  he  said. 

"No.  But  I  want  to  see  you  busy  and  happy  in  the 
best  way.  I  don't  think  you're  quite  yourself  here  in 
London." 

"That's  because  of  the  way  they  have  treated  you." 

"I  am  quite  satisfied,"  said  Olivia  smiling. 

"Because  Sir  Hector  said  that?" 

"Coming  from  him  it  did  please  me  very  much." 

"Well,  I  only  wish  he  could  have  the  chance  to  fulfil 
his  promise,"  said  Fernol.  "Then  the  English  would 
catch  on  to  you  at  last.  For  everything  Burnington 
stands  for  is  gospel  to  them.  They  say  he'll  be  the  next 
Viceroy  of  India." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  were,"  said  Olivia. 

"Would  you  be  glad?"  he  asked  her. 

"Yes.  I  think  he  would  be  the  very  man  for  such 
a  great  post." 

"You  are  wonderfully  unselfish,  Olivia!"  he  said. 

There  was  a  sort  of  break  in  his  voice.  His  expres 
sion  was  oddly  emotional.  He  gazed  at  her  and  she 
saw  an  affection  in  his  eyes  which  stirred  a  faint  anxiety 
in  her. 

"You  do  everything  for  others,  and  no  one  does  any 
thing  for  you.  Sometimes  I  hate  the  world." 

"Fernol,  dear,  if  you  talk  like  that " 

"Well?" 

"I  shall  think  I  didn't  really  cure  you,"  she  said,  so 
berly,  almost  sadly. 


132  SNAKE-BITE 

"You  did  cure  me !"  he  exclaimed  passionately.  "And 
I  shall  never  forget  it,  never." 

And  he  flung  out  of  the  room. 

When  he  had  gone  Olivia  sat  for  a  long  while  quite 
still.  She  was  more  disturbed  in  mind  than  she  had 
ever  been  before,  disturbed  about  Fernol  and  herself. 
She  was  almost  sure  that  Fernol  had  guessed  her  se 
cret.  How?  Had  his  curious  devoticn  to  her  made 
him  clairvoyant?  or — did  perhaps  others  know?  For 
some  time  she  had  been  deeply  in  love  with  Sir  Hector, 
but  hitherto  she  had  believed  that  she  had  hidden  her 
love  from  everyone.  She  was  possessed  by  it,  but  she 
did  not  wish  anyone  to  suspect  that  possession.  For 
she  felt  sure  that  Sir  Hector  felt  nothing  for  her.  She 
could  not  imagine  him  loving  a  woman  in  that  way. 
He  seemed  to  stand  entirely  aloof  from  the  ordinary 
human  passions,  isolated  from  them  by  an  almost  cold 
intensity,  the  intensity  of  the  tremendous  worker,  con 
centrated  on  the  doing  of  big  things  for  his  country. 
Perhaps — probably  even — he  was  abnormally  ambitious, 
but  she  did  not  feel  his  ambition  as  she  felt  his  greed 
for  work,  his  lust  for  the  job  he  was  fitted  to  carry 
through  in  the  world. 

Only  a  great  man  could  be  like  that;  no  woman 
could  ever  care  for  accomplishment  in  just  that  way. 
In  a  woman's  life  work  could  never  shoulder  love  out 
of  the  path.  Did  Fernol  know  her  secret?  She  feared 
so.  He  had  looked  at  her  strangely  when  he  said,  "You 
are  wonderfully  unselfish."  There  had  surely  been 
knowledge  in  his  eyes.  She  was  touched  by  Fernol's 
devotion  to  her;  she  was  grateful  for  it.  She  knew  he 
was  not  in  love  with  her,  never  had  been.  And  yet  to- 
day  she  felt  as  if  there  were  something  almost  danger 
ous,  almost  menacing,  in  his  affection;  she  felt  almost 
afraid  of — or  was  it  for — Fernol. 

She  had  known  for  some  time  that  the  post  Sir  Hec 
tor  was  hoping  for  was  the  Viceroyalty  of  India.  That 
was  why  he  had  been  so  anxious  for  his  sister  to  be  well. 


THE  LOST  FAITH  133 

There  must  be  a  woman  out  there  to  be  the  handmaid  to 
his  glory. 

Was  he  not  less,  or  more,  than  human  ? 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  disquiet  in  India.  A  woman 
had  been  active  in  stirring  it  up.  So  rumour  said. 

He  would  soon  crush  it,  that  man  of  bronze. 

It  was  tragic  to  love  such  a  man.  Yet  she  knew  that 
she  clung  to  her  love.  A  word  from  him  meant  more 
to  her  than  all  the  deeds  of  others.  She  had  satisfied 
him,  had  come  up  to  his  expectation  of  her  in  what  she 
had  tried  to  do  for  him.  That  was  enough  reward. 
The  attacks,  the  contempt  or  indifferences  of  others,  were 
as  nothing  to  her. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Olivia  that,  for  the  first  time  since 
she  had  found  out  her  power  as  a  healer,  she  had  used 
that  power  for  a  partially  selfish  reason;  that,  for  the 
first  time,  she  had  been  instigated  to  a  healing  effort 
by  something  akin  to  egoism.  Her  love  had  made  her 
think  of,  act  for,  her  own  advantage;  and  her  love  now 
prevented  her  from  being  quite  sincere  with  herself. 

A  week  later  it  became  known  that  the  Viceroy  of 
India  had  sent  in  his  resignation,  and  Sir  Hector's  name 
was  mentioned  in  the  Times  as  his  probable  successor. 

Two  days  after  this  piece  of  news  had  been  read  by 
Olivia,  Sir  Hector  telephoned  asking  if  he  could  see  her 
at  a  certain  hour.  She  had  never  received  him  in  her 
flat  since  his  first  visit  there,  but  she  had  seen  him  many 
times  in  Cadogan  Square.  She  answered  saying  she 
would  be  at  home  at  the  hour  he  mentioned,  and,  punc 
tually  to  the  moment,  he  strode  into  the  room. 

She  thought  him  looking  rather  worn,  even  a  little 
weary.  But  he  smiled  as  he  gripped  her  hand. 

"Is  it  true  what  they  say  in  the  papers?"  she  asked. 
"I  hope  it  is  true." 

He  shrugged  his  big  shoulders. 

"We  shall  know  presently.  I've  got  a  word  or  two 
to  say  to  you  about  my  sister.  Let  me  sit  down  and 
light  up,  may  I  ?" 


134  SNAKE-BITE 

"Yes,  do. 

When  his  cigarette  was  alight  and  he  had  crossed 
his  long  legs  comfortably,  he  said : 

"Now,  tell  me.  Do  you  believe  that  my  sister  is  really 
cured — finally  cured?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Olivia,  without  hesitation.  "Do 
you  doubt  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  keen  anxiety  which 
transformed  her  strong  face. 

"I  wanted  to  hear  your  opinion.  I  know  it  is  an  ab 
solutely  honest  one.  I  am  not  given  to  trusting  women, 
but  I  trust  you  thoroughly.  I  am  not  speaking  of  your 
intellect ;  anyone  can  make  a  bad  mistake.  I  am  speaking 
of  your  bona  fides/' 

"Thank  you,"  said  Olivia.  "But  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  your  opinion." 

"I  don't  know  that  it  would  be  worth  much  on  a  mat 
ter  of  this  kind.  She  certainly  seems  to  me  to  be  cured. 
Since  her  accident  she  has  never  looked,  never  seemed, 
as  she  looks  and  seems  now.  The  change  is  extraordi 
nary." 

He  pulled  his  moustache  and  looked  straight  before 
him.  After  a  pause  he  continued: 

"Fernol  West  is  a  strange  young  fellow." 

"What  made  you  think  of  him  just  then?" 

"Well,  he's  the  only  'cure*  of  yours  whom  I  happen 
to  know.  He  dined  with  my  sister  and  me  last  night. 
I  ran  across  him  in  Whitehall  and  asked  him." 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Olivia.  "I  haven't  seen  Fernol 
to-day." 

As  the  general  said  nothing  she  added,  after  a  silence : 

"Why  do  you  think  Fernol  strange?" 

"Well,  I've  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  men  of  all 
classes  and  a  good  many  nationalities,  and  it  strikes  me 
that  there's  something  decidedly  unusual  about  young 
West.  Last  night  I  noticed  it" 

"Did  Fernol  do  or  say " 


THE  LOST  FAITH  135 

"You  know  my  sister.  She's  abominably  truthful, 
eh?" 

"She's  thoroughly  sincere.    I  love  it  in  her." 

"Like  answers  to  like.  Last  night  you  were  spoken 
of.  West  stuck  up  for  you,  as  he  always  does,  and  was 
very  bitter  about  the  way  you've  been  treated  over  here. 
(By  the  way,  that's  a  good  deal  Sandring's  fault.  Be 
tween  you  and  me  he's  more  than  a  bit  of  a  fool.) 
Finally,  he  asked  my  sister  if  she  wouldn't,  in  some  pub 
lic  way,  acknowledge  that  you  had  cured  her  of  her  tor 
turing  headaches." 

"I  am  very  sorry  Fernol  did  that" 

"Then,  of  course,  my  sister's  drastic  sincerity  came 
into  play.  She  said  she  couldn't  do  that  because  she 
was  not  positively  certain  that  her  cure  had  been  owing 
to  you.  She  spoke  of  nervous  headaches,  of  how  nerves 
and  the  imagination  seem  to  be  connected  sometimes, 
implied  that,  possibly,  she  had  been  mentally  influenced 
rather  than  physically.  You  know  how  women  run  on, 
messing  things  all  up  together.  I  saw  West  was  get 
ting  more  and  more  excited.  Finally,  my  sister  said 
that  if  she  had  had  some  perfectly  definite  disease,  such 
as  cancer,  or  diabetes,  and  had  been  treated  by  you  and 
recovered,  she  would  have  told  the  whole  world  what 
you  were.  As  it  was,  she  could  only  be  tremendously 
grateful  to  you,  and  say  that  it  was  quite  possible  that 
you  had  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  getting  rid  of  her 
headaches.  Ah!" 

"And  then— was  that  all?" 

"Well — no.  West  just  managed  to  contain  himself. 
But  I  never  saw  a  pair  of  eyes  look  more  menacing 
than  his  did." 

"Menacing !"  said  Olivia,  sitting  forward  in  her  chair. 

"Yes,"  returned  the  general  with  quiet  force.  "He 
turned  to  me  and  asked  me  if  I  were  cured  by  you  of 
ill  health  whether  I  would  publicly  acknowledge  it.  I 
said  I  would — and  let  them  laugh  at  me  as  much  as  they 
likecj.  Then  he  became  calmer.  I  took  my  sister  dp- 


136  SNAKE-BITE 

Stairs.  We'd  just  finished  dinner  and  I  had  to  go  to  the 
telephone.  When  I  came  back  to  the  dining-room  I 
found  West  standing  by  the  window  with  the  curtain 
pulled  back." 

"What  was  he  doing?" 

"Getting  some  air.    He  looked  odd — deucedly  odd." 

"In  what  way?" 

"White.  However,  we  finished  our  wine  together  and 
he  seemed  to  calm  down.  But  all  the  rest  of  the  eve 
ning  I  felt  that  he  was  keeping  something  under.  In 
India  I've  seen  two  or  three  native  soldiers  run  amuck. 
H'm!" 

He  was  silent  and  seemed  to  be  thinking  profoundly. 

"What  did  you  cure  West  of  exactly  ?"  he  asked  pres 
ently. 

Olivia  told  him. 

"It  was  like  acute  neurasthenia.  Some  of  the  doc 
tors  thought  there  was  some  pressure  on  the  brain.  He 
was  desperately  miserable  and  haunted  by  a  desire  to 
kill  himself." 

"Ah!" 

He  lit  another  cigarette  and  uncrossed  his  legs. 

"The  brain!"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself.  "My  sister 
fell  from  a  horse,  too,"  he  added,  speaking  to  Olivia. 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"There  might  be  something  akin  in  the  two  cases?" 

"I — perhaps  there  might." 

After  a  minute  of  silence  Olivia  said : 

"I'm  afraid  you  doubt  my  cure  of  your  sister." 

"Well— no;  I  don't." 

"Not  even — after  last  night?" 

"You  follow  me,  I  see." 

He  looked  full  at  her.  And  this  time  she  did  not 
feel  like  a  tiny  figure  in  the  foreground  of  some  vast 
space  over  which  he  was  gazing.  Her  heart  began  to 
beat  fast. 

"My  instincts  guide  me  more  than  you  might  sup 
pose,"  he  observed.  "I  believe  you  have  made  a  cure 


THE  LOST  FAITH  137 

of  my  sister.  But  I  wanted  to  test  your  mind.  I  might 
sacrifice  a  good  many  people  if  I  thought  their  sacri 
fice  would  advance  things.  But  I  shouldn't  care  to  sac 
rifice  my  sister.  She  is  an  unselfish  woman  where  I  am 
concerned.  I  don't  wish  to  take  too  great  advantage 
of  that  weakness  in  her.  Well,  I  must  leave  you." 

He  got  up.     So  did  Olivia. 

"I'm — I'm  almost  sure  now  that  you  wouldn't  call 
me  in  if  you  were  ill,"  she  said. 

Her  lips  were  trembling.  She  could  not  keep  them 
still. 

"Would  you  wish  me  to?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  should." 

"Then  I  would  give  you  the  chance  to  put  me  right. 
It  would  be  my  way  of  paying  the  debt  I  owe  you.  I 
always  settle  my  debts.  Some  men  have  reason  to  wish 
I  didn't,  I  believe.  Good-bye." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  towards  her.  And 
again  Olivia  noticed,  this  time  more  definitely,  some 
subtle  change  in  his  appearance.  She  could  not  have 
defined  it,  but  she  was  strongly  aware  of  it. 

He  shook  her  hand  and  went  out. 

When  he  had  gone  Olivia  sat  for  a  long  while  think 
ing  about  him,  about  Miss  Burnington,  about  Fernol, 
and  about  herself,  and  she  was  conscious  that  her  usually 
steady  and  strong  mind  was  troubled.  Events  seemed 
to  be  stealthily  grouping  themselves  together  to  make 
an  ugliness,  some  shape  that  she  would  not  care  to  look 
upon.  Presently  she  even  began  to  feel  as  if  that  shape 
were  looming  over  her,  although  she  could  not  see  it 
yet. 

She  did  not  meet  Fernol  that  day.  A  week  went  past, 
and  she  neither  saw  him  nor  heard  from  him.  This 
surprised  her,  as  he  generally  looked  in  on  her  at  the 
flat  three  or  four  times  a  week.  Saturday  came.  She 
went  as  usual  to  the  Bureau.  She  had  been  there  about 
an  hour  when  a  messenger  arrived  with  a  note  for  her. 


138  SNAKE-BITE 

It  was  marked  "Private  and  urgent."     She  opened  it 
and  read : 

"Strictly  private. 

"2A,  CADOGAN  SQUARE. 
"Saturday. 

"My  DEAR  Miss  TRAILL, 

"Can  you  possibly  come  at  once?  My  brother 
is  very  unwell  and  wishes  to  see  you.  Please  do  not 
say  a  word  to  anyone  about  this.  I  know  I  can  rely  on 
you  to  keep  the  matter  a  secret. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"HONORIA  BURNINGTON." 


Ill 

Olivia  burnt  Miss  Burnington's  note,  had  a  taxicab 
called,  got  into  it  and  was  on  the  way  to  Cadogan  Square 
within  five  minutes  of  the  receipt  of  this  message.  As 
the  cab  moved  out  into  the  stream  of  traffic  she  leaned 
back  and  shut  her  eyes.  The  great  moment  of  her  life 
had  surely  come.  She  was  trying  to  collect  all  her  forces 
to  meet  it  But  for  the  moment  she  felt  frightened, 
horribly  frightened,  almost  like  a  child  struck  for  the 
first  time  and  shuddering  not  merely  in  body  but  in  soul. 
Fernol's  desire  had  been  fulfilled.  That  was  strange. 
She  thought  of  ill-wishing,  of  the  old  superstition  con 
nected  with  the  burning  of  a  waxen  image  of  your 
enemy,  of  the  more  modern  belief  that  by  the  force  of 
his  thought  a  man  may  cause  to  happen  that  which  he 
longs  for.  Was  Fernol's  thought-power  very  strong? 
Could  he  have  set  himself  to  an  evil  use  of  it?  She 
saw  before  her  Sir  Hector  and  Fernol,  the  great  man 
and  the  excitable  boy.  It  was  fantastic  to  suppose  that 
such  a  man  could  be  influenced  by  such  a  boy.  Yet  there 
was  force  in  Fernol.  His  concentrated  devotion  to  her 
had  proved  that  to  Olivia  long  ago.  And  more  than 
once  he  had  almost  passionately  expressed  a  wish  that 


THE  LOST  FAITH  139 

Sir  Hector  could  have  the  chance  of  redeeming  his  prom 
ise.  And  now  the  chance  had  come.  Sir  Hector  was 
going  to  redeem  it.  She  did  not  doubt  that.  Directly 
she  had  read  Miss  Burnington's  note  she  had  under 
stood. 

She  strove  to  gather  her  forces  together;  she  called 
upon  her  faith  as  if  it  were  distant  and  needed  a  sum 
mons. 

When  the  cab  stopped  she  opened  her  eyes. 

She  got  out  and  rang  the  bell.  A  footman  came  to 
the  door. 

"Can  I  see  Miss  Burnington  ?"  she  asked. 

As  she  spoke  her  eyes  searched  the  young  man's  face 
and  found  only  a  stolid  indifference. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  replied.  "Miss  Burnington  is  ex 
pecting  you." 

He  shut  the  door  and  preceded  her  up  the  staircase. 

She  waited  for  a  moment  in  the  familiar  drawing- 
room  which  to-day  seemed  unfamiliar.  Then  Miss 
Burnington  came  in  looking  anxious  and — Olivia 
thought — almost  stern. 

"Thank  you  for  coming,"  she  said  quickly,  holding 
out  her  hand.  "Had  you  gone  to  the  Bureau?" 

"Yes.    I  got  your  message  there." 

"I  sent  to  your  flat  too.  Miss  Traill,  you  know  my 
real  regard  for  you,  don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  my  great  gratitude  to  you.  But  I'm  afraid  you 
may  doubt  both  when " 

She  broke  off,  then  resumed : 

"Hector  made  me  send  for  you.  And,  of  course,  his 
word  is  law  in  this  house.  But  I  want  him  to  have  a 
doctor  at  once.  I  want  him  to  have  Sir  Mervyn.  If 
you  will  only  refuse  to  go  to  him  then  the  road  will  be 
clear,  and  he  must  give  way.  Don't  you  see?  It  isn't 
that  I  doubt  you.  I  know  you  are  thoroughly  sincere. 
But  Hector's  life  is  so  precious  and  science " 


140  SNAKE-BITE 

"Sir  Hector  wished  for  me,"  said  Olivia.  "Doesn't 
that  show  -  " 

But  Miss  Burnington  interrupted  her. 

"He  insisted.  He  said  he  had  a  debt  to  pay  and  he 
meant  to  pay  it." 

"That  was  like  him  r 

"But  I  know  you  will  feel  yourself  that  it  is  madness 
not  to  send  for  a  doctor.  He  has  never  been  ill  before, 
so  he  can't  understand.  My  headaches  —  they  were 
nothing.  Anyone  may  have  —  but  —  I'm  asking  a  great 
deal,  I  know.  It  is  almost  like  an  insult,  but  indeed  I 
don't  mean  it  so." 

Suddenly,  with  an  almost  violent  gesture,  she  took 
both  Olivia's  hands  in  hers. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  make  you  understand,  but  I 
can't  help  it.  I  have  no  real  faith  in  any  healing  power 
outside  medical  or  surgical  science.  If  you  will  only 
refuse  to  go  to  Hector  I  can  call  in  a  doctor.  May  I? 
May  I?" 

"Your  brother  trusts  me.  If  I  refuse  he  will  think 
I  don't  trust  myself,  that  I  am  a  humbug.  He  has  asked 
for  me,  and  I  must  go  to  him.  Remember  how  ill  you 


were." 


"And  now  I'm  well.  Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  But  I'm 
nothing." 

"You  were  everything  to  me  when  I  was  treating  you. 
And  now  he  will  be  everything  to  me.  Dear  Miss  Burn 
ington,  please  take  me  to  him." 

Miss  Burnington's  thin  figure  stiffened. 

"Well,  if  I  must,"  she  said,  with  a  beaten  intonation. 
"But  just  one  thing.  Hector  doesn't  wish  anyone  to 
know  he's  ill.  He's  ashamed  of  being  ill,  I  believe.  At 
any  rate  —  unless  we  can't  help  it  —  we  are  not  to  say  a 
word." 

"But  the  servants?" 

"Only  Sidney,  his  valet,  knows.  The  others  think 
he's  got  a  slight  chill  and  is  keeping  his  room." 

She  stood  quite  still,  then  threw  back  her  head. 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  141 

"Please  come  up,"  she  said. 

But  now  a  strange  hesitation  seized  Olivia.  She  was 
afraid  to  go  to  that  room  upstairs,  to  see  the  man  who 
was  ill. 

"Miss  Burnington — wait  a  moment !"  she  said. 

"Yes?    What  is  it?" 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Is  he  very  ill?" 

"You  will  see  for  yourself,  Miss  Traill.  Do  you  be 
lieve  you  can  cure  anything?" 

Her  dark  eyes  looked  piercing,  as  if  she  would  read 
the  soul  of  her  visitor.  Olivia  did  not  answer  her.  There 
was  a  moment  of  silence.  Then  Miss  Burnington  said : 

"He  has  never  been  ill  before.  I  cannot  understand 
it.  I  can  only  suppose  that  he  has  eaten,  or  drunk,  some 
thing  which  has  made  him  ill.  His  constitution's  mar 
vellous.  But  no  one  is  safe  from  a  chance  of  that  kind." 

"No,  of  course  not    Well,  let  us  go  up." 

And  she  followed  Miss  Burnington  out  of  the  room. 

Sir  Hector  lived  on  the  second  storey  in  a  set  of  three 
rooms  at  the  back  of  the  house — bedroom,  bathroom,  and 
writing-room.  Olivia  had  expected  to  be  taken  into  a 
bedroom,  but  when  Miss  Burnington  softly  opened  a 
door  she  saw  a  small  chamber  full  of  books,  and  con 
taining  a  large  flat  writing-table,  a  settee  and  some  arm 
chairs.  Sitting  with  his  back  to  her,  close  to  the  fire, 
towards  which  he  was  leaning,  was  Sir  Hector. 

So  he  was  up !  She  felt  a  strong  sense  of  relief.  But 
it  died  away  as  he  looked  round. 

"Here  is  Miss  Traill,  Hector,"  said  Miss  Burnington. 

And  she  went  out  of  the  room. 

Sir  Hector  sat  with  his  head  turned  towards  the  door 
and  his  eyes  fixed  on  Olivia. 

"Very  good  of  you  to  come,"  he  said.  "There's  some 
thing  wrong  with  me." 

"Yes." 

She  came  up  to  the  fire. 


SNAKE-BITE 

"What  do  you  feel?" 

"As  if  I  were  going  to  be  very  much  worse  than  I 
am  now.  It's  been  coming  on  for  days — stealthily — 
creeping  on  me.  I  kept  about  till  I  was  afraid  of  people 
noticing  it.  To-day,  when  the  light  came,  I  knew  I 
couldn't  do  a  thing.  So  here  I  am — useless.  If  you 
don't  stop  it  I  shall  soon  be  pretty  bad." 

"Yes,  I  can  see  that." 

She  sat  down.  Now  that  she  was  close  to  him  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  pupils  of  his  strange  eyes  had 
altered.  When  she  had  met  him  first  she  had  been  struck 
by  their  abnormal  smallness.  Now  they  were  larger, 
or,  at  any  rate,  looked  larger. 

"What  are  you  staring  at?"  Sir  Hector  said,  with  a 
touch  of  almost  sharp  suspicion. 

But  she  did  not  answer  him, 

"Just  tell  me  what  you  feel,"  she  said,  in  a  practical 
voice. 

"Well,  I  should  say  it's  all  very  much  like  the  begin 
ning  of  enteric." 

"Enteric  fever!  That's  the  same  as  typhoid  fever, 
isn't  it?"  ^ 

"Yes;  intestinal  fever.  I've  never  had  it,  but  I've 
seen  chaps  sickening  for  it  by  the  dozen.  They  were  all 
as  useless  as  I  am.  I  feel  tired  all  the  time — without 
doing  anything.  It's  abominable.  The  thought  of  food 
turns  me  sick.  My  head  aches  like  the  devil.  And  it's 
all  getting  worse.  I'm  on  the  road  to  something  infer 
nally  bad,  Miss  Traill,  and  the  pace  is  quickening  every 
hour.  I'm  certain  of  that." 

He  lay  back  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"I  thought  you  didn't  look  quite  as  usual  the  day  you 
called  on  me,"  said  Olivia. 

"The  day  after  young  West  dined  with  us.  It  was 
just  beginning  then,  I  believe." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  during  which  Olivia 
looked  at  the  man  whom  she  loved,  noticing  the  almost 
sinister  change  in  him.  He  was  pale,  a  bad  colour.  A 


THE  LOST  FAITJH  143 

sort  of  crust  of  weariness  lay  over  his  strength,  like 
moss  on  a  wall  of  stone.  There  was  something  hopeless, 
broken,  in  his  whole  aspect.  Even  his  great  limbs  looked 
hopeless.  Near  his  eyes  fever  seemed  lurking  eager  to 
light  up  her  torches.  Olivia  knew — something  that  was 
not  medical  knowledge  told  her — that  this  man  who  had 
never  been  ill  in  his  life  was  on  the  verge  of  a  danger 
ous,  perhaps  a  deadly,  illness,  And  an  agony  of  pity 
and  fear  swept  through  her,  pity  and  fear  for  him  and 
for  herself.  At  that  moment  she  felt  very  helpless.  The 
fact  that  he  had  sent  for  her,  that  he  had  held  to  his 
word,  given  when  probably  he  had  felt,  like  most  healthy 
and  very  strong  men,  that  illness  could  never  come  to 
his  powerful  body,  touched  her  too  much,  almost  un 
nerved  her.  Had  she  really  any  force  within  her  that 
could  operate  on  a  human  being  whom  she  felt  to  be  far 
above  her,  on  one  whom  she  loved  ?  To  believe  so  seemed 
to  her  at  that  moment  to  be  almost  an  insolence.  Yet 
if  her  faith  in  herself  deserted  her  she  must  surely  be 
useless.  She  must  believe  in  herself  more  strongly  than 
she  had  ever  done  before.  The  supreme  chance  had  been 
offered  to  her  by  fate.  She  must  seize  it.  She  must 
triumph  over  her  own  weakness  of  a  woman  who  loved, 
and  who,  because  she  loved,  feared. 

She  strove  to  recover  by  force  the  sensation  of  mys 
terious  power  which  had  filled  her  when  she  went  up  to 
Lily  and  said :  "I  can  cure  you"  .  .  .  She  got  up  and 
stood  before  Sir  Hector,  looking  down  upon  him. 

"If  you  hadn't  made  me  a  promise/'  she  said,  "would 
you  have  sent  for  me?" 

Sir  Hector  opened  his  eyes. 

"I  have  sent  for  you,"  he  replied,  with  a  touch  of  his 
old  commanding  brusqueness.  "That's  enough.  But 
please  keep  it  quiet.  I  hate  people  to  knew  I  am  ill.  If 
you  put  me  right — that's  another  matter." 

"If  I  do  I  will  ask  you  to  give  me  another  promise — 
never  to  tell  anyone,  either  that  you  were  ill  or  that  I 
was  able  to  help  you." 


144  SNAKE-BITE 

"And — young  West?"  he  said,  faintly,  but  with  a 
strange  half  smile  on  his  lips. 

"Fernol?  Why  should  Fernol  ever  know?  Now, 
please  give  me  your  hands." 

That  evening  Olivia  telephoned  to  the  Savoy  Hotel 
and  asked  for  Fernol  West.  She  feared  that  he  might 
not  be  in,  but  almost  directly  she  was  put  through  to 
him. 

"It  is  Olivia  speaking,"  she  said. 

"Oh!"  said  Fernol's  voice  at  the  other  end.  "Are 
you  all  right?" 

"Yes.    Have  you  anything  to  do  this  evening?" 

After  a  perceptible  pause  Fernol's  voice  answered : 

"No." 

"Will  you  come  round  and  have  a  talk,  then?  I'm 
all  alone." 

Again  a  pause,  then  the  voice :    "All  right.    I'll  come." 

Olivia  put  the  receiver  up  and  looked  at  her  watch. 
It  was  half-past  eight.  If  Fernol  started  at  once  he 
would  be  with  her  in  ten  minutes.  She  wondered  whether 
he  would  start  at  once.  She  had  received  through  the 
telephone  an  impression  of  reluctance.  But,  of  course, 
he  would  come.  She  sat  down,  took  up  the  book  of 
Tagore,  which  he  had  given  her,  and  tried  to  read.  It 
was  essential  that  she  should  be  serene,  complete  mistress 
of  herself  to-night.  Any  turmoil  of  spirit  must  weaken 
her.  She  must  banish  anxiety,  suspicion,  and,  above  all, 
fear.  She  must  control  thought. 

"He  will  be  better  to-morrow,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"I  know  that.  He's  getting  better  now.  To-night  he's 
going  to  sleep  calmly.  He  will  wake  refreshed,  free 
from  headache,  free  from  malaise.  The  headache  will 
have  left  him.  He  will  be  much  better." 

She  put  down  her  book  and  insisted  on  these  strong 
and  hopeful  thoughts.  Fear  disintegrates.  Suspicion 
does  harm  to  her  who  suspects.  Doubt  is  destructive. 
Faith  can  move  the  mountains.  Presently  she  sent  her 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  145 

mind  to  Palestine,  to  dwell  in  imagination  by  the  deli 
cate  shores  of  Galilee.  When  she  had  read  the  Bible, 
very  often  she  had  wondered  at  the  lack  of  faith  shown 
by  many  of  those  among  whom  Christ  wrought  His 
miracles.  "If  I  had  been  alive  then,"  she  had  said  to 
herself,  "I  should  have  been  one  of  the  first  to  believe, 
and  I  should  never  have  wavered  in  my  faith."  Now 
she  wished  to  think  herself  back  into  that  mood  of  ro 
bust  and  glorious  confidence.  She  looked  into  the  fire 
and  trod  the  ways  of  the  Holy  Land  with  Christ.  "Only 
believe !"  What  is  impossible  to  God  ?  And  God  works 
through  men  and  women,  sends  His  spirit — a  double 
portion  of  it — into  those  who  wait  for  it,  and  are  eager 
to  receive  it.  He  had  helped  her  to  heal,  and  He  would 
help  her  to  heal  again.  Through  Him  she  could  walk 
on  the  waters.  But  if  once  she  let  fear  invade  her,  com 
plete  trust  desert  her,  she  would  sink  in  them.  They 
would  sweep  over  her.  She  would  drown.  .  .  . 

Presently  she  moved  and  looked  up.  She  had  made 
a  strong  effort  of  mind  and  will  and  she  felt  almost  tired. 
She  glanced  again  at  her  watch.  It  was  twenty  minutes 
past  nine.  And  Fernol  had  not  come  yet.  She  was 
beginning  to  wonder  whether  he  would  come,  in  spite 
of  his  "All  right!"  when  the  door  bell  sounded.  She 
got  up,  but  she  did  not  go  at  once  to  the  door.  Some 
thing  held  her  back.  She  waited,  looking  towards  the 
passage.  The  door  bell  sounded  again.  Then  she 
turned  out  the  electric  light  with  the  exception  of  one 
lamp  in  a  corner,  walked  down  the  passage  and  opened 
the  door. 

Fernol  West  was  standing  outside.  The  night  was 
cold,  and  he  was  wrapped  up  in  a  big  fur  coat  with  the 
collar  raised  to  his  ears. 

"Well,  Olivia!"  he  said. 

His  blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  she  noticed 
that  instead  of  moving  he  stood  quite  still  where  he  was, 
almost  like  a  man  who  doubted  whether  he  would  be  let 
in. 


146  SNAKE-BITE 

"Good  evening,  Fernol.  Come  in.  How  late  you  are. 
I'd  almost  given  you  up." 

"Am  I  late?"  he  said. 

He  stepped  in  and  she  shut  the  door. 

"Take  off  your  coat.    I've  got  a  good  big  fire." 

"That's  splendid.     It's  horribly  cold.     I  walked." 

He  went  to  hang  up  his  coat. 

"Why  didn't  you  take  a  cab?" 

"I  wanted  air." 

The  words  recalled  to  Olivia  Sir  Hector's  description 
of  Fernol  standing  by  the  dining-room  window  in  Cado- 
gan  Square  with  the  curtain  pulled  back. 

"Don't  you  get  enough  in  the  day?"  she  asked. 

"Not  always." 

He  had  hung  up  his  coat.  As  he  turned  round  from 
the  hook  he  shivered. 

"It's  cold!"  he  exclaimed.    "Let's  get  to  the  fire." 

"Yes.  You'll  soon  be  splendidly  warm.  ...  Sit  down 
here  close  to  it." 

She  drew  forward  an  armchair.  For  the  first  time 
with  Fernol  she  felt  embarrassed.  She  knew  why,  but 
she  did  not  wish  him  to  notice  it.  He  sank  down  in 
the  chair  with  a  boyish  sort  of  flop,  and  stared  into  the 
flames.  She  sat  on  the  sofa  and  took  up  a  piece  of  work. 

"Smoke  if  you  like." 

"No,  thank  you,  Olivia.    I'm  off  smoking." 

"Why's  that?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Nothing  wrong  with  you,  I  hope?" 

"Wrong!" 

He  shot  a  side  glance  at  her. 

"Why  should  there  be?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  you  haven't  been  near  me  for 
quite  a  long  time." 

"Just  over  a  week." 

"Well,  that's  quite  a  long  time — for  us." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is." 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  147 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Fernol  shifted  his  chair 
round  towards  her. 

"Since  I've  seen  you  I've  dined  with  Sir  Hector  and 
his  sister,"  he  said. 

"I  know." 

"Oh!    YouVe  seen  them,  then?" 

"Sir  Hector  called  here  the  next  day." 

"Did  he?  And  he  told  you,  of  course?  It  was  good 
of  him  to  ask  me.  But  I  can't  stand  Miss  Burnington." 

"I  like  her  very  much." 

"You  like  everyone.  It's  your  creed.  But  I  can't. 
I'd  give  my  life  for  a  friend,  but  some  people " 

He  broke  off  and  moved  his  hands  nervously. 

"I  think  I  will  smoke,"  he  said.  "D'you  mind  a 
cigar?" 

"No;  anything  you  like." 

He  drew  out  and  lit  a  cigar.  She  noticed  that  his  left 
hand  was  trembling. 

"Are  you  still  cold?"  she  asked. 

"No;  why?" 

"Your  hand  is  shaking." 

He  started. 

"Give  it  to  me  for  a  moment." 

"It's  all  right.    I'll  hold  it  to  the  fire." 

He  stretched  his  right  hand  out  towards  the  flames. 

"It's  your  other  hand,"  said  Olivia. 

"Oh,"  he  said  brusquely.    "Don't  bother  about  me." 

"Fernol,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  Why  haven't 
you  been  near  me  all  these  days?  What's  troubling 
you?" 

"Who's  been  talking  to  you  about  me?"  he  retorted 
almost  savagely. 

"Nobody  has  mentioned  you,  except  Sir  Hector." 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  said  Fernol,  with  an  ugly 
glance  at  her. 

"Don't  you  like  Sir  Hector?" 

"Yes.    He's  a  real  live  man." 


148  SNAKE-BITE 

"Well,  you  may  be  sure  he  has  never  said  anything 
against  you." 

"Have  you  seen  him  again  since  he  called  on  you?" 

"Yes.    I  saw  him  to-day." 

Fernol  was  staring  at  her.  Was  it  the  light  of  the 
fire  which  set  two  gleams  in  his  eyes? 

"To-day!    Here?" 

"No;  I  called  at  Cadogan  Square." 

Fernol  said  nothing,  but  continued  to  stare  at  her 
like  one  who  was  fiercely  expectant  of  something.  Olivia 
realised  that  he  was  in  an  acute  state  of  nervous  excite 
ment,  was  quivering  with  anxiety,  or  under  the  lash  of 
some  intense  desire.  Could  he  have  got  wind  of  Sir 
Hector's  illness?  That  seemed  impossible  since  even 
the  servants  in  the  Burningtons'  house  did  not  know 
the  truth.  She  was  not  a  curious  woman,  but  Fernol's 
look,  his  whole  manner,  woke  in  her  a  strong  curiosity 
mingled  with  an  under  reluctance  which  was  akin  to 
apprehension.  Everything  to-day  seemed  fighting  against 
her,  fighting  to  beat  down  the  strength  which  had  made 
her  what  she  was,  a  woman  who  was  of  use  in  the 
suffering  world,  one  to  whom  the  afflicted  came,  and 
from  whom  they  went  away  renewed.  Even  Fernol  was, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  attacking  her,  Fernol,  who  had 
been  one  of  her  greatest  joys,  a  piece  of  her  handiwork 
of  which  she  had  been  humbly  proud.  She  no  longer 
felt  proud  of  him.  To-night  something  in  him  forced 
upon  her  a  knowledge  that  was  a  deadly  foe  to  her  soul. 
A  voice  within  her  said  clearly  again  and  again,  "Fernol 
is  not  cured.  You  thought  him  cured,  but  you  were 
wrong.  Look  at  him,  listen  to  him,  and  be  sincere  with 
yourself.  You  know  that  you  have  not  cured  him." 

At  this  moment,  while  Fernol  was  staring  at  her, 
the  voice  was  louder  than  before,  the  silent  voice  which 
nothing  can  drown,  not  even  the  roar  of  Niagara.  It 
drove  Olivia  to  greater  frankness.  She  could  not  be 
really  frank  to-night,  because  she  had  to  keep  the  secret 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  149 

of  another,  but  she  could  surely  clear  away  some  of  the 
debris  which  divided  her  from  Fernol. 

"Fernol,"  she  said,  in  a  resolute  voice.  "You  know 
I  believe  very  much  in  the  force  of  thought,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  look  upon  thought  as  a  weapon  for  good  or  evil. 
A  wicked  thought,  I  believe,  does  harm  to  the  thinker. 
But  that's  not  all.  It  may  harm  another  too.  It  often 
does.  I  am  sure  of  that.  Some  of  us  are  much  stronger 
in  thinking  than  others.  We  can  put  much  more  force 
into  a  thought  than  they  can.  I  believe  you  and  I  are 
strong  in  that  way.  I  know  you  are.  You  can  concen 
trate  tremendously.  I  feel  it.  And  I  feel  it  specially  to 
night." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should,"  said  Fernol  uneasily. 

"You  and  I  are  good  friends.  That  links  our  minds 
together  perhaps.  It  helps  me  to  feel  your  mind  easily. 
But  to-night,  though,  I  feel  I  don't  know.  I  wish  you 
would  help  me  to  know.  I've  been  afraid  for  some 
time." 

"Afraid!    What  of  ?" 

"That  you  might  be  led  to  think  in  a  wrong  way." 

"What  way,  then?" 

Suddenly  Olivia  resolved  to  tell  Fernol  the  secret 
which  perhaps  he  had  divined.  An  obscure  instinct,  of 
which  she  was  scarcely  conscious,  but  to  which  she 
yielded  without  a  battle,  a  woman's  instinct,  drove  her 
to  do  this.  But  her  cheeks  flushed  as  she  spoke. 

"Fernol,  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  proof  of  my  friend 
ship  for  you,  and  I  know  I  can  trust  to  your  honour 
never  to  speak  of  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you." 

An  expression  that  was  like  an  expression  of  fear 
changed  Fernol's  face. 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  tell  you  ?"  she  asked,  startled. 

Fernol  passed  his  tongue  over  his  lips  and  clenched  his 
hands  together. 

"Yes — yes.    Go  on !    Go  on !"  he  said,  roughly. 


150  SNAKE-BITE 

"Perhaps  you  know  it  already/'  she  said,  seized  with 
hesitation. 

His  look  and  manner  were  so  strange  that  they  checked 
the  impulse  within  her.  At  her  last  words  the  boy's  face 
seemed  to  her  to  go  white  in  the  light  from  the  fire.  But 
perhaps  that  was  an  effect  of  the  flames. 

"Know  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "How  should  I  know  it? 
Of  course  I  don't.  .  .  .  Well,  what  is  it?  Tell  me— 
please!" 

"I  care  very  much  for  Sir  Hector  Burnington." 

She  stopped.  He  said  nothing,  and  seemed  to  be  wait 
ing  for  something  else. 

"Do  you  understand  what  I  mean  ?"  she  said. 

"You  love  him !"  said  Fernol. 

"Yes.    No  one  knows  that  but  you." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"All!" 

"Yes,  or  have  you  something  more  to  tell  me?" 

"Isn't  that  enough?" 

"Why  do  you  tell  me?" 

"I  thought  I  would." 

"But  why?  I  know  you  have  a  reason.  What  is  it, 
please?" 

He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  dogged  obstinacy  which  surely 
was  the  child  of  apprehension. 

"I  am  not  sure." 

She  stopped  and  searched  her  mind. 

"It  was  something — there  seemed  something  to  clear 
away  from  between  us.  And  I  want  you  to  know  how 
anything  which  affects  Sir  Hector  must  affect  me,  be 
cause  of  my  feeling  for  him.  I  know  very  well  that  you 
care  for  my  happiness.  I  don't  seek  it  in  any  selfish 
way.  Sir  Hector  only  looks  on  me  as  a  sincere  sort  of 
woman  trying  to  do  her  best  with  any  powers  she  has. 
I  look  for  nothing  more  from  him  than  that.  He  is 
made  for  big  work,  not  to  love  any  woman.  I  have 
no  illusions  about  him — none.  Such  happiness  as  I 
can  ever  have  in  connection  with  him  must  lie  in  seeing 


THE  LOST  FAITH  151 

him  strong  and  happy  and  able  to  carry  forward  the 
great  things  he  is  meant  to  do  for  his  country.  Now, 
Fernol,  I  have  bared  my  heart  to  you.  It  hasn't  been 
easy,  but  I  have  done  it.  Do  something  for  me  in  re 
turn." 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do,  Olivia?"  he  asked, 
in  a  voice  that  for  a  moment  was  husky,  as  if  he  were 
moved  by  some  strong  emotion. 

"Promise  me  that  you  will  never — of  course,  I  mean 
in  thought — try  to  do  harm  to  Sir  Hector !" 

"Why — why  should  you  suppose ?" 

He  stopped.    He  was  no  longer  looking  at  her. 

"We  don't  know  exactly  what  a  concentrated  desire 
may  be  able  to  accomplish.  Lots  of  people  would  prob 
ably  say  nothing,  unless  it  were  aided  by  some  definite 
action.  But  my  own  experience  tells  me  it  may  accom 
plish  a  great  deal — wonders  even — good  things — horrible 
things.  What  is  faith  but  a  great  concentration;  a  sort 
of  gathering  together  of  the  best  forces  of  the  soul? 
When  you  came  to  me  in  Boston,  and  we  were  together 
so  many  times  in  my  little  room  there,  and  I  saw  how 
dreadfully  wretched  you  were,  my  one  desire  was  to 
get  you  right.  It  was  so  strong  that  it  was  almost  like 
an  enormous  physical  effort  which  I  made.  I  felt  as  if 
I  were  standing  up  and  fighting  against  the  powers  of 
darkness  for  you.  And  I — I  thought  I  won." 

"Thought!"  Fernol  exclaimed.    "You  did  win!" 

"Thank  God  if  I  did." 

"Do  you  mean  you  have  ever  doubted  it?"  he  said 
passionately. 

His  cheeks  were  flaming,  and  he  looked  straight  into 
her  eyes. 

"I  never  doubted  it  in  America." 

"And  here!  What  do  you  mean?  How  can  you 
say  that — what  is  there  the  matter  with  me?  I'm  per 
fectly  well.  Anyone  can  see  that." 

"Don't  be  angry,  Fernol.  But  just  answer  me  one 
question.  Two  or  three  times  you  have  said  to  me  that 


152  SNAKE-BITE 

you  wished  Sir  Hector  could  have  a  chance  to  carry  out 
his  promise  to  me.  You  know  that  could  only  happen 
if  he  were  ill.  Have  you  gone  on  wishing  him  to  be  ill? 
Have  you  concentrated  on  that?" 

"You  always  come  first  with  me,"  he  said  obstinately, 
looking  down.  "That's  my  idea  of  gratitude.  You 
condemn  it,  I  know.  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't  be  like 
you." 

"Then  you  have  concentrated  on  an  evil  desire?" 

"Why  do  you  go  into  all  this  to-night?  Is — is  there 
anything  the  matter  with  Sir  Hector?" 

Something  in  Femol's  expression  as  he  asked  this 
question  startled  Olivia.  She  felt  at  that  moment  almost 
certain  that  Fernol  did  know  something  of  what  had 
happened  in  Cadogan  Square.  But  her  promise  to  Miss 
Burnington  prevented  her  from  touching  on  the  sub 
ject.  If  she  did  touch  on  it,  if  she  allowed  Fernol  to 
pursue  it  any  further,  she  would  be  unable  to  keep  Sir 
Hector's  illness  secret  from  Fernol.  She  was  forced  to 
be  something  less  than  sincere. 

"What  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  Fernol,  is  this,"  she 
said,  ignoring  his  question.  "If  you  care  for  me  really 
at  all,  if  you  wish  to  show  gratitude  to  me,  there  is  only 
one  way  in  which  you  can  do  it.  Turn  your  mind  from 
evil  desires.  Put  good  desires  in  their  place.  Use  your 
strength  only  in  a  fine  way.  Wish  well  to  Sir  Hector. 
I  know  you  will  now  I  have  told  you  what — was  very 
difficult  to  tell.  I  cannot  bear  that  for  me  you  should 
become  evil.  It  makes  me  feel  that  it  would  be  better, 
far  better,  if  you  had  never  seen  me.  If  I  produce  evil 
in  you  I  must  be  an  evil  influence.  I — I  hate  to  think 
that  of  myself." 

She  was  deeply  moved  as  she  spoke.  Something  that 
had  been  firm  seemed  to  be  crumbling  beneath  her  feet. 

"Good  night,  Fernol,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "I  want 
to  be  alone  now." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  in  silence,  but  he  did  not  move. 

"Please  go,"  she  said. 


THE  LOST  FAITH  153 

"Yes.    But  say  that  you  know  you  did  cure  me  first." 

"You  could  not  be  fanatical  about  me  if  you  were 
thoroughly  normal/'  she  answered,  looking  at  him  with 
steady,  sad  eyes.  "The  sane  mind  in  the  sane  body  is 
never  fanatical." 

"Then  you  think  I  am  mad?"  he  cried,  bitterly. 

"Oh,  Fernol,  it's  no  use — perhaps  we  are  both  exag 
gerating  things  to-night.  Don't  let  us  talk  any  more. 
Now,  good  night." 

She  took  his  reluctant  hand. 

"Give  yourself  to  good  thoughts  and  all  will  be  well, 
dear  Fernol.  Send  good  thoughts  to  me  and — to  him 
too.  Perhaps  we  both  need  them." 

"It  would  be  no  use,"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 
"But,  anyhow,  I  would  die  for  you." 

He  wrung  her  hand,  hurting  her.  But  she  did  not 
wince. 

"Do  you  believe  it?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  die.  I  want  you  to  live  and  be 
fine." 

"Perhaps  some  day  you'll " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence  but  left  her.  She  heard 
him  in  the  passage  taking  his  heavy  coat  down  from 
the  hook.  Then  there  was  a  long  silence.  No  doubt 
he  was  putting  his  coat  on.  But  the  silence  lasted  till 
she  was  surprised  at  it  and  wondered  what  could  be 
happening. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Fernol?"  she  called  out,  with 
out  going  to  the  door. 

Instantly  she  heard  a  movement.  Then  the  outer  door 
was  opened  and  shut.  He  had  gone. 

"He's  sick — he's  sick!"  said  the  voice  within  her. 
"The  man  you  love  is  ill  in  body  and  the  boy  you  thought 
you  had  healed  is  ill  in  mind  and  soul.  You  never  healed 
him.  You  can't  heal.  You  haven't  the  healing  power. 
Perhaps  you  had  it  once,  but  it's  left  you.  It  came  to 
you,  it  stayed  with  you  a  little  while,  and  now  it  has  de 
serted  you.  You're  an  empty  vessel.  You're  worse — 


154?  SNAKE-BITE 

you're  a  humbug.  You  know  you  haven't  got  what  you 
claim  to  possess,  and  so  you're  a  living  lie." 

As  she  listened  to  the  voice,  the  faith  within  her  was 
shaken.  It  seemed  to  grow  pale,  to  be  fading  away,  to 
be  dying.  And  a  sensation  of  despair  seized  her.  But 
she  fought  it.  She  recalled  the  many  cures  she  had 
made — or  was  it  had  seemed  to  make  ? — in  America,  the 
deep  confidence  she  had  inspired  in  women  and  men,  the 
gratitude  which  had  been  showered  upon  her.  And  then 
she  recalled  the  attacks  which  had  been  made  upon  her, 
the  cruel  names  she  had  been  called,  charlatan,  humbug, 
crank,  self -deceiver.  Self -deceiver !  Had  she  been  really 
that  all  through  her  career  as  a  healer?  Had  she  been, 
as  it  were,  self-hypnotised,  and,  because  of  that,  had 
she  hypnotised  others — Lily  first  of  all,  and  then  many 
suffering  human  beings  ?  She  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  a  long 
procession  of  those  who  had  sought  her  out,  headed  by 
Lily.  Presently  Fernol  went  by  with  his  eyes  bent  down 
to  the  ground,  as  if  he  dared  not  let  her  see  what  was 
in  them;  and  long  after  him  Miss  Burnington  with  a 
sceptical  smile  on  her  lips.  She  had  not  believed.  Per 
haps  her  brains  were  too  strong,  too  penetrating,  to  be 
tricked.  And  last  of  all  strode  Sir  Hector,  with  his 
mien  of  bronze,  and  his  strange  glazed  eyes.  And  he 
looked  at  her,  and  his  motionless  lips  seemed  to  be  say 
ing  :  "I  am  the  great  test.  Cure  me  and  all  will  believe. 
But  if  you  fail,  death  is  waiting  for  me,  and  you  will 
have  been  my  murderer." 

Then,  in  her  fight  to  bring  back  red  life  to  the  fading 
faith,  she  told  herself  that  the  reason  of  this  hideous 
collapse  was  that  she  had  been  less,  or  more,  than  a 
woman,  and  that  now  she  was  just  a  woman.  She  had 
loved,  or  thought  she  loved,  humanity,  the  mass  of 
created  beings,  with  their  affections,  their  sorrows,  their 
terrors,  their  yearning  desires;  now  she  loved  one  man. 
And  he  blotted  out  humanity  from  her  view ;  he  expelled 
humanity  from  her  heart.  She  knew  the  narrowness  of 
a  great  love.  Her  widely  diffused  power  of  sympathy 


THE  LOST  FAITH  155 

had  shrunk.  She  saw  it  as  a  burning  spark,  minute  but 
fierce  with  the  terrible  fierceness  of  fire.  She  would  let 
the  world  go  for  one  man. 

But  she  would  not  let  him  go.  She  would  not  fail 
in  the  job  he  had  set  her,  the  greatest  job  a  woman  who 
loves  can  have.  Exactly  how  much  he  believed  in  her 
power  she  did  not  know.  He  was  a  difficult  man  to 
read.  He  had  never  been  ill  before,  and  perhaps  even 
now,  in  spite  of  his  assertion  that  the  pace  was  quick 
ening,  could  not  realise  that  at  the  end  of  the  path  he 
was  treading  death  might  be  waiting.  Such  a  man  is 
apt  to  have  the  illusion  that  he  is  invulnerable,  until  old 
age  leads  him  by  almost  imperceptible  degrees  to  cessa 
tion.  He  was  paying  a  debt.  But  if  he  got  worse?  If 
the  knowledge  were  forced  on  him  that  he  was  in  the 
hands  of  a  loud-mouthed  impotence?  She  would  give 
it  all  up  before  that  moment  came.  She  herself  would 
proclaim  herself  helpless. 

But  she  shivered  when  she  thought  of  making  such 
an  acknowledgment  to  such  a  man.  What  a  contempt 
he  would  have  for  her.  If  she  was  not  what  she  claimed 
to  be,  she  was  far  less  than  the  unknown  millions  who 
had  made  no  claim  to  be  other,  or  more,  than  their 
brethren.  She  was  only  an  assertive  nothingness.  Her 
cheeks  burned  at  the  thought  of  being  found  out  to  be 
that  by  the  man  whom  she  loved.  She  could  not  bear 
it.  Women  can  bear  so  much,  but  there  is  the  impossi 
ble — the  one  thing  that  cannot  be  endured.  And  that 
would  be  the  impossible  for  her. 

Suddenly  she  wished  she  had  medical  knowledge.  She 
could  have  used  it  to  back  up  her  mysterious  power. 
(She  was  trying  to  smother  the  voice.)  Sir  Hector's 
words  recurred  to  her  mind.  "I  should  say  it's  all  very 
much  like  the  beginning  of  enteric."  Possibly,  if  a  doc 
tor — Sir  Mervyn — had  been  summoned  he  would  have 
diagnosed  the  case  as  one  of  enteric  fever.  And  then 
he  would  have  done  certain  things.  What  things?  She 
wished  she  had  a  medical  book  handy.  That  would  tell 


156  SNAKE-BITE 

her  a  good  deal  of  what  she  needed  to  know.  Her  eyes 
fell  on  a  bookcase  against  the  wall  of  the  little  room  near 

the  door.  It  was  not  likely  that She  went  over  to 

the  bookcase. 

"Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels";  "Shakespeare's  Works"; 
"The  Mill  on  the  Floss";  "The  Sorrows  of  Satan"; 
"Shelley's  Poems";  "Wuthering  Heights";  "The  Life  of 
Goethe" 

She  read  on  and  on  till  she  came  to  the  bottom  shelf, 
which  was  larger  than  any  of  the  others. 

"Chambers's  Dictionary." 

There  were  many  volumes.  She  sought  eagerly  for 
the  letter  E,  found  it,  and  drew  out  the  heavy  book. 

"Enteric  Fever — see  Typhoid  Fever." 

She  sought  again,  and  found  what  she  wanted. 

Presently  she  laid  the  book  she  had  been  reading  down 
upon  her  knees.  What  was  the  matter  with  Sir  Hector  ? 
Was  he  sickening  for  typhoid  ?  From  what  she  had  just 
read  she  judged  that  possibly,  even  perhaps  probably,  he 
was.  Yet  the  disease  was  rarely  met  with  after  middle 
life.  He  was  between  fifty  and  sixty,  and  tremendously 
strong.  It  seemed  very  unlikely  that,  living  as  he  did  in 
excellent  hygienic  conditions,  he  would  be  stricken  by 
such  a  disease.  Since  she  had  read  about  typhoid,  her 
former  preoccupation  about  Fernol's  state  of  mind 
seemed  almost  absurd  to  her.  Ill-wishing  could  not  pro 
duce  an  illness  which  science  had  long  ago  proved  to  be 
caused  by  an  organism.  And  yet  she  could  not  get  rid 
of  the  feeling  that  somehow  Fernol's  peculiar  concentra 
tion  on  her  was  harmful,  or  might  be  harmful,  to  Sir 
Hector.  Whenever  she  thought  of  either,  the  other 
came  up  in  her  mind  immediately.  The  great  man  and 
the  excitable  boy  were  inexorably  linked  together.  Her 
instincts  were  at  work  in  the  matter.  She  knew  that, 
and  she  had  long  ago  learned  that  instinct  is  greater 
than  reason.  The  fact  that  Fernol's  openly  and  vehe 
mently  proclaimed  wish  that  Sir  Hector  might  fall  ill  had 
been  so  quickly  followed  by  his  illness  was  a  very  strange 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  157 

coincidence,  and  Fernol's  behaviour  troubled  her  terribly. 
He  was  certainly  concealing  something  from  her.  His 
eyes  were  furtive.  His  whole  manner  suggested  acute 
uneasiness.  All  his  former  frankness  and  joyousness 
had  left  him.  What  was  the  matter  with  him?  What 
did  he  know  about  Sir  Hector?  What  was  he  expecting? 
He  seemed  to  be  quivering  with  some  secret  expectation. 

She  looked  down  again  on  the  book  and  her  eyes  fell 
on  the  words:  "The  pupils  are  generally  somewhat 
larger  than  normal."  A  little  lower  down  she  saw  the 
brief  statement:  "Death  may  take  place  by  coma,  by 
exhaustion,  in  consequence  of  severe  hemorrhage  of  the 
bowels  or  of  perforation  of  their  coats,  or  from  pneu 
monia  or  some  other  complication ;  rarely  from  any  cause 
before  the  second  week." 

Perhaps  the  second  week  of  the  illness  had  begun. 
Sir  Hector  had  told  her  that  he  thought  "it"  was  just 
beginning  the  day  after  Fernol  had  dined  with  him. 

Suddenly  Olivia  turned  white  and  cold.  A  horrible 
thought  had  come  upon  her  like  an  enemy.  She  hated 
it.  She  was  indignant  with  herself  for  being  able  to 
hold  it  in  her  mind.  Quickly  she  shut  up  the  dictionary, 
put  it  back  on  the  shelf,  turned  out  the  lamp,  and  went  to 
her  bedroom.  But  the  horrible  thought  went  with  her, 
poisoning  her  mind,  doing  harm  surely  to  her  soul.  She 
did  not  know  how  to  get  rid  of  it.  She  undressed, 
wrapped  herself  in  a  dressing-gown  and  knelt  down  by 
her  bed.  She  wanted  to  pray,  but  though  for  years  she 
had  practised  thought-control  and  had  achieved  an  un 
usual  mastery  of  the  mind,  to-night  she  was  like  a  city 
invaded  by  a  horde  of  brutal  enemies.  It  was  as  if  she 
heard  the  tramp  of  their  feet  in  the  night,  saw  the  glare 
of  their  incendiary  fires.  She  knew  the  impotence  of 
the  conquered.  In  vain  she  tried  to  concentrate  on  God 
and  her  close  connection  with  Him.  Fernol  rose  up  be 
fore  her.  She  saw  a  glass  of  wine  set  on  a  white  cloth ; 
Fernol  standing  by  a  window  holding  back  a  curtain; 
Sir  Hector  entering  the  room.  But  it  was  impossible. 


158  SNAKE-BITE 

Such  a  thing  was  impossible.  She  crushed  her  face  down 
in  her  hands.  How  could  such  a  punishment  come  upon 
her  when  she  had  always  exerted  herself  for  good?  Al 
ways  she  had  aimed  at  helping  people  and  not  at  self- 
advancement.  She  could  not  accuse  herself  of  trying  to 
become  rich,  or  of  the  more  subtle  endeavour — the  at 
tempt  to  win  notoriety  or  glory.  A  certain  fame  had 
been  hers  in  America;  but,  honestly,  she  could  say  that 
she  had  not  sought  it.  She  was  not  conscious  of  being 
an  egoist.  Then,  surely,  such  a  fearful  punishment  as 
she  had  just  conceived  of  could  not  be  meted  out  to  her. 
When  she  looked  around  her  she  certainly  saw  much 
apparent  injustice  in  the  fates  of  men  and  women ;  never 
theless,  she  had  always  believed  in  the  Divine  justice, 
and  it  would  be  a  refinement  of  injustice  that  could  bring 
about,  or  even  allow  to  be,  what  she  had  just  thought  of, 
was  thinking  of  now  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  drive 
it  out  of  her  mind.  Something  unhealthy  in  Fernol  must 
have  infected  her  to-night.  But  her  mind  was  not  read 
ing  his  when  it  had  formed  that  hideous  surmise. 

A  something  disturbed  her.  She  did  not  know  what 
it  was,  but  she  lifted  her  head  from  her  hands  and 
listened.  It  was  surely  some  sound  in  the  flat.  Pres 
ently  she  felt,  rather  than  heard  it  again.  She  won 
dered  what  it  could  be.  She  had  an  odd  feeling  that 
there  was  someone  near  her,  either  attending  to  her  in 
some  peculiar  way,  or  trying  to  tell  her  something.  Sir 
Hector!  She  sprang  up  and  stood  still.  Perhaps  he 
had  suddenly  become  worse;  was  wishing  her  to  be  with 
him.  Perhaps  Miss  Burnington  was  sending  for  her. 
She  thought  first  of  dressing  quickly,  and  went  to  her 
wardrobe.  But  just  as  she  was  opening  its  door  she 
was  again  aware  of  some  muffled  and  yet  near  sound. 
This  time  she  went  out  into  the  passage.  And  imme 
diately  she  heard  distinctly  the  telephone  bell  in  the  draw 
ing-room.  It  must  be  that  Sir  Hector  was  worse.  She 
ran  down  the  passage,  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
took  down  the  receiver. 


THE  LOST  FAITH  159 

"Yes— yes?  What  is  it?  Is  he  worse?  Shall  I  come?" 
she  said. 

She  was  so  obsessed  by  the  idea  that  the  message 
was  from  Cadogan  Square  that  she  did  not  think  of  im 
prudence  till  she  heard  Fernol's  voice  saying : 

"It's  I— Fernol.    What's  the  matter?" 

"Fernol!"  she  said. 

"Yes.    Is  who  worse?" 

"What,  Fernol?" 

"Is  who  worse?" 

"I — I  thought  it  might  be  someone  of  those  I  have 
been  treating.  What  is  it  you  want?  I  was  going  to 
bed." 

"Sorry  I  disturbed  you.  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  I 
know  very  well  what  you  were  thinking  about  me  to 
night." 

She  fancied  that  there  was  a  sinister  sound  in  the 
voice  that  was  speaking. 

"I — I  don't  think  I  understand,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do.  You  were  thinking  I  was  wrong 
in  the  head — mad,  in  fact.  But  you're  mistaken.  I'm  as 
sane  as  you  are.  Good  night." 

"Fernol,"  she  said.     "Fernol!" 

But  she  was  cut  off. 

After  this  she  made  no  further  attempt  to  pray.  She 
no  longer  even  tried  to  control  her  thoughts.  She  let 
herself  go  to  thought  and  to  emotion  as  heedlessly  as 
a  terrified  girl.  There  was  no  longer  firm  ground  be 
neath  her  feet.  Femol's  reiterated  allusion  to  madness, 
his  uncalled-for  assertion  of  sanity,  drew  her  on  to  the 
contemplation  of  a  possibility  so  awful  that  it  banished 
sleep.  And  she  lay  awake  all  night,  companioned  by 
fear.  Towards  dawn  she  got  up,  went  to  the  drawing- 
room^  took  down  the  volume  of  the  dictionary  which 
contained  the  article  on  typhoid  fever,  and,  returning  to 
bed,  studied  it  minutely  till  the  murky  daylight  of  Lon 
don  filtered  into  the  room.  She  even  committed  a  great 
part  of  it  to  memory,  learning  with  a  feverish  intensity 


160  SNAKE-BITE 

of  concentration  which  she  had  never  been  able  to  sum 
mon  up  when  studying  for  an  examination  in  the  days  of 
her  youth.  And  all  the  time  that  she  was  learning  the 
silent  voice  kept  repeating:  "You  hypocrite!  You 
hypocrite!"  The  words  ticked  in  her  brain  as  a  clock 
ticks  in  a  lonely  room.  But  she  defied  them.  A  great 
life,  perhaps,  was  at  stake,  and  the  whole  of  her  happi 
ness.  One  sentence  which  she  read — she  knew  she  could 
never  forget  it,  even  if  she  lived  to  be  very  old — was  as 
follows : 

"No  drug  is  known  to  cure  the  disease;  and  in 
many  cases  none  is  required." 

She  clung  to  that  sentence;  she  cherished  it  in  her 
mind.  As  she  dressed,  while  she  breakfasted — she  forced 
herself  to  eat  as  usual — she  repeated  it  over  and  over; 
to  her  it  meant  this:  "A  doctor  would  be  of  no  use  to 
him ;  I  can  do  all  that  a  doctor  could  do."  She  thanked 
God  for  that  sentence. 

After  breakfast  she  walked  to  Cadogan  Square.  She 
had  sent  a  message  to  the  Bureau  to  say  she  could  not 
go  there  either  in  the  morning  or  afternoon.  She  had 
resolved  to  give  all  her  strength,  all  her  powers,  to  Sir 
Hector.  She  knew  she  had  nothing  to  give  to  anyone 
else. 

The  day  was  brilliantly  clear,  but  intensely  cold.  She 
welcomed  the  sharpness  of  the  air  as  a  tonic.  Although 
she  had  had  no  sleep,  she  felt  violently  alive.  As  she 
walked,  by  way  of  the  Park,  and  then  down  Sloan  Street, 
she  strove  to  gather  her  forces  together.  She  had  re 
solved  what  to  do.  She  meant  to  remain  in  the  house 
all  day,  to  spend  the  night  there  if  necessary,  to  take 
charge  of  the  case  like  a  doctor  as  well  as  like  a  healer. 
She  would  fill  Miss  Burnington  with  confidence  in  her. 
She  was  bracing  herself  for  the  fight  of  her  life.  There 
was  no  longer  any  question  in  her  mind  of  giving  in, 
of  acknowledging  that  she  was  doubtful,  of  yielding  her 


THE  LOST  FAITH  161 

place  to  Sir  Mervyn  or  anyone  else.  A  change  in  her  had 
come  with  the  sleepless  night.  The  fibre  of  her  nature 
seemed  to  have  hardened  under  the  stress  of  the  agony 
she  had  gone  through.  There  are  crises  in  which  the 
human  being  either  breaks  down  or  becomes  fierce  and 
almost  brutally  defiant.  Olivia  had  not  broken  down. 
But  something  tender  and  beautiful  in  her,  something 
sincere  and  very  delicate,  seemed  to  have  snapped  like 
a  string  drawn  too  tight.  Fernol's  visit  had  made  her 
for  the  moment  unscrupulous.  He  had  put  fear  in  her, 
and  in  fighting  down  fear  she  had  caught  something  of 
the  brutality  of  the  soldier  in  battle. 

When  she  reached  the  house  in  Cadogan  Square,  and 
was  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened,  she  said  to  her 
self: 

"He  has  slept  well.  He  is  better  to-day.  The  illness 
is  leaving  him."  And  when  the  footman  came  she  was 
smiling. 

She  wished  him  "good  morning,"  and  went  upstairs. 
Miss  Burnington  met  her  on  the  first  landing. 

"He's  better,  isn't  he?"  said  Olivia. 

"Please  come  in  here  before  you  go  up  to  him,"  said 
Miss  Burnington  in  a  low  voice. 

She  shut  the  drawing-room  door  carefully.  Then  she 
said: 

"Miss  Traill,  why  did  you  tell  Mr.  West  my  brother 
was  ill?" 

"But  I  haven't  told  him." 

"Haven't  you  seen  him  since  you  were  here  yester 
day?" 

"Yes.     I  saw  him  last  night." 

"He  called  early  this  morning  to  ask  how  my  brother 
was.  I  didn't  see  him.  The  footman  said  as  far  as  he 
knew  there  was  nothing  the  matter  but  a  slight  cold. 
You  must  have  said  something." 

Olivia  explained  how  she  was  startled  by  hearing  the 
telephone,  and  wflat  she  had  said  exactly  before  she  knew 
Fernol  was  speaking. 


162  SNAKE-BITE 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said.  "But  I  never  mentioned 
your  brother's  name/' 

"But  he  guessed  who  it  was.  Why  was  that?"  asked 
Miss  Burnington. 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  at  Olivia  with  suspicion  in 
her  eyes.  There  was  something  of  half-veiled  hostility 
in  her  look  and  manner. 

"How  can  I  tell?  I  never  even  hinted  to  Fernol  that 
there  was  anything  wrong  with  your  brother." 

"Then  it's  very  strange." 

Miss  Burnington  paused. 

"I  don't  like  Mr.  West,"  she  said,  after  a  moment  of 
silence.  "I  know  he's  your  friend,  but  there's  something 
in  him  I  shrink  from.  I  think  he's  abnormal  in  some 
way.  If  people  like  him  find  out  that  Hector  is  ill,  I 
can't  answer  for  what  I  might  do." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"Hector  is  worse  this  morning.  He's  had  a  very  bad 
night.  I  shan't  be  able  to  allow  this  sort  of  thing  to  go 
on  much  longer." 

Olivia  knew  now  she  was  speaking  to  an  enemy. 

"You  visit  my  brother,"  continued  Miss  Burnington. 
"You  keep  the  doctors  out  by  doing  so.  But  have  you 
any  idea  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Olivia  firmly. 

"Then,  what  is  it?" 

"I  shall  be  more  certain  to-day.  You  must  not  think 
that  because  I  am  only  a  healer  I  know  nothing  about 
illness." 

"Have  you  ever  studied  either  medicine  or  sur- 
gery?" 

"Not  as  doctors  do,  but " 

"Exactly!"  interrupted  Miss  Burnington.  "You 
haven't.  You  know  nothing  of  the  science.  And  yet 
you  dare  to  take  chances  with  such  a  life  as  my  broth 
er's  !  I  speak  strongly,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  feel  strongly.. 
I  must  tell  you  this,  Miss  Traill:  if  anything  should 


THE  LOST  FAITH  163 

happen  to  Hector  you  will  be  held  responsible  by  public 
opinion — and  by  me." 

"I  will  take  the  risk.  He  trusts  me.  That  is  enough 
for  me." 

"I  suppose  you  realise  that,  if  Hector  doesn't  get  bet 
ter,  it  will  soon  be  impossible  to  keep  his  illness  from  the 
public.  It  will  get  into  the  papers.  It  will  go  all  over 
the  world.  And  the  fact  of  your  presence  by  his  bed 
side " 

"Isn't  he  up?"  Olivia  interrupted  sharply. 

"No — not  to-day.  .  .  .  The  fact  of  your  presence  by 
his  bedside  will  be  a  public  scandal.  It  will  make  my 
brother  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  I'm 
afraid  it  will  make  you — odious." 

"You  are  trying  to  frighten  me,  but  I  am  not  to  be 
frightened.  I  have  too  much  faith  in  myself." 

"Do  you  really  believe  in  yourself?"  said  Miss  Burn- 
ington.  And  she  looked  at  Olivia  as  if  she  would  probe 
into  the  depths  of  her,  would  drag  into  the  light  her 
sincerity  or  insincerity. 

"I  have  always  believed  in  myself.  And  your  brother 
must  believe  in  me  or  he  would  call  in  the  doctors." 

"He  has  always  hated  doctors.  And  he's  tremen 
dously  obstinate.  But  you  can  bring  him  to  reason.  Re 
fuse  to  treat  him.  Tell  him  you  think  it  is  very  serious 
and  he  ought  to  call  in  a  doctor,  and  I'm  sure  he  will 
do  it." 

"Yes,  and  put  me  down  as  the  humbug  I  am  not !  No, 
Miss  Burnington,  I  will  not  do  that." 

"Well,  if  it  all  becomes  known  the  whole  jvorld  will 
laugh  at  my  brother.  I  know  what  people  are.  A  great 
soldier,  a  great  public  man  in  the  hands  of  the  faith  heal 
ers!  It  would  ruin  Hector.  No  man's  reputation  can 
survive  that  sort  of  thing.  If  you  are  ready  to  gamble 
with  his  life  at  least  pause  and  think  before  you  gamble 
with  his  reputation." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Olivia,  with  a  sort  of  cold  obsti 
nacy  which  concealed  a  turmoil  of  emotion.  "I  under- 


164  SNAKE-BITE 

stand  your  anxiety.  It  makes  you  rather  cruel  to  me, 
but  I  suppose  that  is  natural.  So  I  won't  resent  it.  No 
one  can  care  more  for  your  brother's  safety,  for  his 
future,  for  his  honour  and  fame  than  I  do " 

"Are  you  of  his  blood,  then  ?"  interrupted  Miss  Burn- 
ington,  with  uncontrollable  bitterness. 

"No,  but  I "  Olivia  broke  off,  startled  by  the  wild- 
ness  of  her  own  imprudence. 

"Yes,  Miss  Traill?" 

"I  have  his  interests  and  his  safety  at  heart.  Indeed — 
indeed  I  have." 

"Well,  I  will  say  no  more.  But  I  warn  you  that,  in 
certain  eventualities,  I  shall  act  on  my  own  responsibil 
ity.  I  shall  defy  my  brother's  wishes,  even  his  orders. 
Although  I  am  only  a  woman,  I  have  something  of  his 
obstinacy,  and  I  shall  not  let  him  die  without  showing 
it." 

"Die!"  said  Olivia,  struck  by  the  word  as  by  a  blow 
in  the  heart. 

"Yes— die." 

The  two  women  gazed  at  each  other  for  a  moment, 
and  in  that  moment  Miss  Burnington  read  Olivia's  secret. 

"He  is  going  to  recover,"  said  Olivia,  with  a  strong 
effort  to  control  herself.  "I  know  it.  I  am  not  afraid 
either  for  him  or  myself." 

"Very  well!"  said  Miss  Burnington,  with  icy  cold 
ness.  "Please  go  to  him.  Shall  I  take  you  up  ?" 

"No,  don't  trouble.  Is  it  the  door  next  to  the  sitting- 
room  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  know  it." 

And  she  left  the  room. 

As  she  ascended  the  stairs  she  felt  as  if  the  devil  went 
with  her.  Never  before  had  she  been  conscious  in  this 
sharp  way  of  the  evil  within  her.  Perhaps,  blinded  by 
self-conceit,  she  had  thought  that  she  was  one  of  the  ex 
ceptional  people  who  are  naturally  good.  But  now — 
she  could  not  help  it,  she  thought — she  was  deliberately 


THE  LOST  FAITH  165 

giving  herself  to  evil.  The  strange  thing  was  that  her 
love  drove  her  down  the  broad  path.  It  was  her  love 
which  had  waked  in  her  defiance,  insincerity,  fear,  selfish 
ness,  even  hardness.  It  was  her  love  which  had  changed 
her  into  a  humbug.  She  felt  at  that  moment  that  she 
would  do  anything,  risk  anything,  rather  than  acknowl 
edge  that  she  had  no  more  real  faith  in  herself.  She 
knew  that  she  ought  to  say  to  Sir  Hector,  "I  thought  I 
had  cured  Fernol  West,  but  I  was  wrong.  I  know  that 
now,  and  it  has  shaken  my  belief  in  my  healing  power. 
Your  health  is  more  precious  than  his.  I  have  no  right 
to  try  to  do  for  you  what  I  have  failed  to  do  for  him." 
When  she  reached  the  door  of  his  bedroom  she  stood 
outside  for  a  moment.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  strug 
gle  between  the  good  and  evil  within  her.  For  a  moment 
she  was  uncertain  what  she  would  do  when  she  entered 
the  room.  But  her  hesitation  was  short  lived.  She  re 
membered  Sir  Hector's  quiet  remark:  "No  considera 
tion  should  be  shown  to  failures."  And  when  she  opened 
the  door  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  go  on,  even  to 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  even  perhaps  into  the  gulf. 

Sir  Hector  was  stretched  on  a  narrow,  very  long  bed 
in  a  plainly  furnished  room.  His  face  was  turned  to 
wards  her  as  she  came  in.  She  had  set  her  face  in  an 
expression  of  calm  self-confidence.  And  as  she  looked 
at  him  this  expression  did  not  change,  though  she  saw 
at  once  that  he  was  much  worse.  His  colour  was  ghastly ; 
his  features  had  sharpened;  the  torches  of  fever  were 
alight  in  his  eyes.  But  he  was  apparently  normal  in 
mind.  The  first  thing  he  said  to  her  was : 

"It  hasn't  acted  yet." 

"The  power?  You  must  give  it  time.  Miracles  are 
not  worked  in  a  moment." 

She  sat  down  by  the  bedside. 

"In  a  case  like  yours,  we  must  make  use  of  every 
means  that  can  help." 

"Means?"  he  said,  moving  restlessly  on  the  pillow. 

"Yes.    You  mustn't  suppose  that  because  I  heal  peo- 


166  SNAKE-BITE 

pie  without  medicine  or  surgery  I  neglect  elementary 
precautions.  That  would  be  foolish,  even  wicked.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

"I  can't  think  clearly,"  he  said.  "My  head's  too  in 
fernally  bad." 

"Don't  bother  about  anything." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  broad  forehead. 

"Just  give  yourself  up  to  me  and  all  will  be  well  with 
you." 

"It  seems  deucedly  odd  to  come  to  this,"  he  murmured 
through  a  sigh. 

"Shut  your  eyes.  I  am  going  to  try  to  get  you  to 
sleep." 

He  shut  his  eyes  obediently.  When  he  did  that  she 
was  conscious  of  the  child  in  him  and  knew  her  love 
better.  And  the  obedience  of  this  man  whom  so  many 
had  obeyed  revived  for  a  moment  her  belief  in  her  power. 
Surely  such  a  man  could  not  yield  himself  to  her  if  she 
were  really  impotent.  He  was  a  judge  of  men.  Could 
he  be  utterly  deceived  in  a  woman?  She  was  suddenly 
strengthened.  Still  keeping  one  hand  on  his  forehead 
she  tried  to  pour  all  her  soothing  strength  and  her  love 
into  it.  And  presently  she  saw  he  was  sleeping. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Burnington  was  in  her  bedroom  put 
ting  on  a  hat  and  a  warm  fur  coat.  She  had  not  in 
tended  to  go  out  that  morning  while  she  waited  for  the 
faith  healer,  but  the  scene  with  Olivia  had  driven  her 
to  a  resolve.  She  was,  like  her  brother,  decisive.  Hesi 
tation,  prolonged  mental  debate,  were  foreign  to  her 
nature.  Before  she  came  up  to  her  bedroom  she  had 
ordered  her  car  to  come  round  as  soon  as  possible.  With 
in  a  very  few  minutes  she  was  on  her  way  to  Harley 
Street.  Sir  Mervyn  Butler  had  never  done  her  any  real 
good;  Olivia,  it  seemed,  had  cured  her.  Yet  now  she 
was  hurrying  to  Sir  Mervyn  to  ask  his  advice.  Such  a 
proceeding  might  be  unreasonable.  Perhaps  it  was.  She 
did  not  trouble  about  that.  For  years  she  had  been  ac 
customed  to  consult  Sir  Mervyn.  He  looked  strong.  She 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  167 

liked  him  and  she  knew  he  liked  her.  And,  besides,  he 
was  a  doctor  and  celebrated.  After  the  painful  scene 
with  Olivia,  she  felt  she  must  see  him.  She  knew  that 
the  fact  of  her  brother's  illness  must  shortly  get  out. 
Such  a  thing  could  not  be  kept  secret  for  long.  Sir 
Mervyn  was  the  model  of  professional  discretion.  She 
knew  of  no  one  else  to  whom  she  could  entrust  her  anx 
ieties. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  doctor's  house  his  waiting- 
room  was  thronged  with  visitors.  Of  course,  she  had 
no  appointment,  but  the  man-servant  was  certain  that 
Sir  Mervyn  would  see  her,  although  he  was,  as  always, 
"very  much  taken  up."  While  she  sat  in  the  large  hand 
somely  furnished  room  among  the  silent,  or  softly  whis 
pering,  strangers,  Miss  Burnington  felt  a  little  less  miser 
able.  Sir  Mervyn  hadn't  cured  her,  but  he  must  have 
cured  multitudes  of  others,  or  else  why  should  he  be  so 
famous?  The  sight  of  the  crowd  renewed  her  natural 
woman's  faith  in  doctors.  There  was  something  sub 
stantial  to  rest  upon.  Olivia  Traill — what  status  had 
she?  And  she  dared  to  love  Hector!  Miss  Burnington 
was  jealous  of  her  brother.  His  long  indifference  to 
women  had  given  her  a  delicious  sense  of  security.  Often 
and  often  she  had  thought  to  herself,  "Hector  only  cares 
for  me."  The  knowledge  that  now  another  woman  was 
in  possession  of  him  made  her  heart  burn  with  some 
thing  that  was  very  like  hatred.  And  yet,  through  it 
all,  she  could  not  help  being  grateful  to  Olivia.  That 
day  she  held  in  her  many  emotions. 

Twice  the  man-servant  appeared  and  mysteriously 
summoned  an  anxious  being  to  the  august  medical  pres 
ence.  A  third  time  he  opened  the  door,  swept  Miss  Burn 
ington  with  a  sympathetic  glance,  raised  his  blonde  eye 
brows,  and  formed  some  cabalistic  words  with  his  large 
and  respectable  lips.  A  moment  later  she  was  in  Sir 
Mervyn's  sanctum. 

He  welcomed  her  cordially,  yet  with  a  definite  touch 
of  friendly  sarcasm. 


168  SNAKE-BITE 

"In  spite  of  the  descendant  of  the  Apostles!"  he  said. 

Miss  Burnington  blushed  slightly. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,"  she  said,  rather  nervously. 
"You  might  very  well  have  refused  to  receive  me,  espe 
cially  without  an  appointment.  But " 

"I  knew  the  headaches  would  come  back,"  he  inter 
rupted,  with  a  sort  of  bland  pity. 

"But  they  haven't,"  she  acknowledged,  almost  like  one 
ashamed. 

He  looked  largely  taken  aback,  but  quickly  recovered 
himself. 

"That's  well!  That's  well!  Then  what  is  it?  The 
nervous  affliction  has  reappeared  in  some  other  part  of 
the  organism?" 

"Well— no." 

"Dear  me!" 

He  cleverly  hid  his  disapprobation  and  drowned  his 
appearance  in  intelligent  inquiry. 

"It's  Hector." 

"Sir  Hector !  But  he's  never  ill,"  said  Sir  Mervyn,  with 
a  touch  of  not  wholly  ungenerous  regret. 

"He  is  very  ill." 

The  great  doctor  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  an  ex 
pression  of  almost  fatalistic  resignation,  as  one  who  bows 
to  the  inscrutable  decree  of  a  doubtless  benign  Provi 
dence. 

And  Miss  Burnington  developed  her  story. 

He  listened  in  silence  till  the  end. 

"And  what  do  you  wish  me  to  do?"  he  then  said,  in 
a  very  detached  voice. 

"How  can  we  let  this  go  on?    It  is  madness." 

"Of  course  it  is.  But  you  must  remember  you  set  the 
example." 

"I  know  and  I  blame  myself  bitterly." 

"Don't  distress  yourself.  The  young  woman  has  colos 
sal  determination  and  push,  like  all  these  successful 
frauds.  Their  stock  in  trade  is  small  but  effective;  com 
plete  ignorance,  unbounded  self-confidence,  a  plausible 


THE  LOST  FAITH  169 

tongue,  and  a  hide  of  brass.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  consent 
to  meet  her  in  consultation." 

"You  surely  can't  suppose " 

She  stopped,  as  if  unable  to  make  mention  of  such  an 
outrage. 

"No,"  she  went  on.  "But  couldn't  you  come  to  the 
house  this  evening — she's  sure  to  be  there  still — and  see 
Her,  and  try  to  bring  her  to  a  sense  of  the  danger  of  the 
position?  Do,  Sir  Mervyn,  if  you  still  have  any  friend 
ship  for  me.  She  might  listen  to  you.  She  might  be 
afraid  of  you." 

Sir  Mervyn  pursed  his  full  lips  meditatively. 

"If  she  went  on  attending  Hector  and  he  were  to  die, 
what  would  happen?" 

"It  would  be  a  serious  business  for  the  young  woman," 

"Make  her  understand  it.    Frighten  her." 

"The  matter  requires  thinking  over." 

"If  you  will  only  come,  I  will  make  Hector  see  you. 
His  illness  is  sure  to  get  out  in  a  day  or  two,  and  if 
it  gets  into  the  papers  that  he's  called  in  a  faith  healer, 
what  will  people  say  ?" 

"I  fear  they  might  say — mind  you,  I  don't  pledge  my 
self  that  they  will — they  might  say  that  your  brother  was 
not  the  most  suitable  choice  that  could  be  made  for  the 
Viceroyalty  of  India." 

"Exactly!  We  can't  risk  that.  If  you  have  any 
friendship  for  me  you  will  come." 

"Very  well !"  said  Sir  Mervyn,  after  a  suitable  pause. 

She  took  his  large  soft  hand  impulsively. 

"That's  good  of  you.  But  I  knew  you  would.  I  knew 
your  generous  nature.  And,  of  course,  you  won't  say 
a  word." 

"Good  Heavens,  Miss  Burnington !" 

She  left  him  feeling  thoroughly  rebuked  but  burning 
with  gratitude. 

That  afternoon,  just  after  four,  he  arrived  at  Sir  Hec 
tor's  house. 

His  mouth  was  set  in  a  grim  expression  as  he  mounted 


170  SNAKE-BITE 

the  stairs  to  the  drawing-room.  He  had  a  profound 
veneration  for  science,  and  an  active  hatred  of  quacks. 
He  genuinely  believed  that  Olivia  was  a  conscious  im 
postor,  and  that  Fernol  West  was  a  neurotic  young  mil 
lionaire,  whom  she  had  probably  hypnotised  into  the 
delusion  that  she  had  cured  him  of  some  nervous  dis 
ease,  and  who  doubtless  supplied  her  with  money.  He 
had  come  there  that  day  determined  to  give  her  no  quar 
ter.  He  had  already  struck  hard  at  her  in  the  Press. 
Now  he  had  the  chance  of  finishing  her  off  in  a  personal 
encounter.  It  was  a  great  opportunity  and  it  should  not 
find  him  wanting. 

Miss  Burnington  joined  him  almost  immediately,  look 
ing  nervous,  but  determined. 

"It  is  good  of  you !"  she  said.  "You  are  a  true  friend 
in  need." 

"I  have  the  highest  regard  for  you  both.  Is  she  still 
here?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Do  sit  down  for  a  moment.  Take  this 
chair.  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"What  is  it?" 

"You  know  that  young  man,  Mr.  West?" 

"The  neurotic  boy  she  claims  as  a  cure.  I  saw  him 
that  once." 

"Well,  it's  most  extraordinary;  he's  been  here  again." 

"Again?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  I  told  you!  He  called  early  this 
morning  to  ask  how  Hector  was." 

"Then  he  knows  of  this  illness?" 

"Evidently.  Yet  Miss  Traill  swears  she  never  men 
tioned  my  brother's  name  to  him  in  connection  with  ill 
ness." 

Sir  Mervyn  smiled. 

"You  don't  believe  her?" 

He  smiled  again,  as  if  he  considered  that  was  quite  a 
sufficient  answer. 

"If  she  hasn't  he  must  have  guessed  it  somehow." 

"That  would  be  rather  remarkable,  wouldn't  it?" 


THE  LOST  FAITH  171 

"It's  all  inexplicable  to  me.  Anyhow  he  called  again 
just  now  and  made  the  most  minute  inquiries  of  the  foot 
man.  He  wanted  to  know  what  was  the  matter  and 
whether  any  doctor  had  been  called  in." 

"And  what  was  he  told?" 

"The  footman  said,  according  to  his  own  account  of 
the  interview,  that  he  only  knew  that  my  brother  was 
keeping  his  room  and  that  Miss  Traill  had  been  in  the 
house  all  day.  Then,  he  said,  the  young  gentleman 
seemed  quite  satisfied  and  gave  him  a  sovereign." 

"Most  extraordinary!" 

"Isn't  it?  John  has  been  with  us  since  he  was  a 
boy  and  would  tell  me  everything.  What  do  you  think 
of  it  all?" 

"What  can  one  think  except  that  Miss  Traill  and  this 
neurotic  young  man  are  acting  together  ?  She  must  have 
told  him  something.  I  shall  be  very  much  surprised  if 
it  isn't  all  in  the  papers  to-morrow  morning." 

"Oh,  Sir  Mervyn!  I  must  tell  you  one  thing  more. 
Just  before  Hector  was  taken  ill,  Mr.  West  dined  alone 
with  me  and  my  brother.  At  dinner  there  was  a  dis 
cussion  about  Miss  Traill.  Mr.  West  got  very  excited 
because  I  said  I  couldn't  be  sure  she  had  really  cured 
me  of  my  headaches.  (He  had  wanted  me  to  acknowl 
edge  publicly  that  she  had  cured  me.)  Finally  he  asked 
my  brother  whether  if  he  were  ill  and  Miss  Traill  seemed 
to  cure  him — Mr.  West  didn't  say  seemed — Hector  would 
let  the  world  know  it." 

"And  what  did  Sir  Hector  say?" 

"My  brother  said  he  would,  and  let  them  laugh  at  him 
as  much  as  they  liked." 

"Was  your  brother  quite  well  at  the  time?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

"And  you  say  he  became  ill — when  ?" 

"I  thought  he  didn't  look  quite  himself  the  very  next 
day.  And  from  then  on  he  grew  gradually  worse." 

Sir  Mervyn  looked  very  grave.  He  sat  in  silence  for 
a  moment  while  Miss  Burnington  watched  him. 


172  SNAKE-BITE 

At  last  he  said : 

"Had  your  brother  ever  said,  or  implied,  that  he  might 
possibly  trust  himself  to  Miss  Traill  if  he  ever  were 
ill?" 

"He  never  said  so  to  me,  not  in  so  many  words.  But 
I  think  he  believed  Miss  Traill  had  cured  me,  and  when 
he  felt  ill  he  told  me  he  would  have  Miss  Traill,  and 
that  he  had  a  debt  to  pay  and  was  determined  to  pay  it." 

"He  might  have  told  her  before  he  was  ill  that  if  he 
ever  were  ill  he  would  send  for  her,"  said  Sir  Mervyn. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"And  that  young  man " 

He  paused. 

"It's  all  very  strange,  isn't  it?"  said  Miss  Burnington. 

"Yes." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

The  doctor,  who  seemed  sunk  in  deep  thought,  shifted 
slowly  in  his  armchair. 

"When  Mr.  West  dined  with  you,  were  you  in  the 
room  all  the  time?" 

"Naturally — that  is,  till  I  left  him  with  my  brother 
to  finish  their  wine." 

"And  then,  of  course,  Sir  Hector  was  with  him." 

"Hector  came  upstairs  with  me  and  went  to  the  tele 
phone  for  a  minute." 

"While  Mr.  West  remained  alone  in  the  dining-room  ?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  all  this,  Sir  Mervyn?"  Miss 
Burnington  said  at  last. 

"Oh — well!    Put  it  down  to  professional  curiosity." 

"Professional!" 

"Ah !    And  now,  can  I  see  the  young  woman  ?" 

"I'll  make  her  come  down  to  you." 

She  got  up. 

"One  moment!    Suppose  she  refuses?" 

"Surely  she  can't!" 

"She  might." 


THE  LOST  FAITH  173 

"Then  what  do  you  advise?" 

"If  you'll  allow  me  I'll  write  her  a  note." 

He  got  up,  went  to  the  writing  table,  sat  down,  took 
pen  and  paper,  and  wrote  a  few  lines,  which  he  enclosed 
in  an  envelope. 

"If  she  refuses  you  might  give  her  that." 

Miss  Burnington  took  the  note. 

'Til  do  everything  you  tell  me.  Oh,  I'm  so  thankful 
you  are  here !" 

And  she  hurried  out  of  the  room,  while  the  doctor  left 
the  writing  table  and  went  to  stand  by  the  fire.  The 
expression  of  grim  sarcasm  had  left  his  powerful  face. 
As  he  gazed  into  the  flames  he  looked  profoundly 
thoughtful  and  stern. 

IV 

It  seemed  a  long  time  to  Sir  Mervyn  before  the  door 
opened  and  Olivia  came  in.  She  held  his  note  in  her 
left  hand  and  her  face  was  white.  When  he  turned  from 
the  fire  and  saw  her,  he  bowed  grimly. 

"I  see  you've  read  my  note,  Miss  Traill,"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"So  much  the  better.  I'm  here  at  the  urgent  request, 
I  might  say  on  the  insistence,  of  Miss  Burnington." 

"I  know.    She  told  me." 

"Hadn't  we  better  sit  down?  We've  got  to  come  to 
an  understanding." 

"Yes." 

Olivia  sat  down,  and  the  doctor  followed  her  ex 
ample. 

"What  does  this  note  mean?"  she  asked.  "You  say 
in  it,  Tf  you  do  not  see  me  I  shall  be  compelled  to  seek 
information  as  to  Sir  Hector's  condition  elsewhere.  I 
shall  be  compelled  to  seek  out  your  friend,  Mr.  Fernol 
West.'  What  has  Fernol  West  to  do  with  Sir  Hector's 
illness?  Sir  Hector  sent  for  me  and  I  came.  I  have 
a  right  to  be  here  as  he  wishes  it.  I  have  never  told 
Fernol  West  about  his  illness." 


174  SNAKE-BITE 

"And  yet  he  knows.  He  has  just  been  here  for  the 
second  time  to  inquire  about  Sir  Hector." 

Olivia  looked  startled. 

"Didn't  Miss  Burnington  tell  you  about  it?"  said  Sir 
Mervyn. 

"No." 

"Then— let  me  do  so." 

He  repeated  Miss  Burnington' s  account  of  the  inter 
view  with  the  footman  and  the  giving  of  the  tip.  While 
he  was  speaking  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Olivia,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  beneath  her  rigid  expression  he 
detected  the  shadow  of  a  great  fear.  She  sat  without 
moving  till  he  had  finished.  Then  she  said : 

"I  can  only  repeat,  I  never  told  Mr.  West  that  Sir 
Hector  was  ill." 

"Who  did,  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Perhaps  it  was  unnecessary  that  anyone  should  tell 
him,"  said  Sir  Mervyn,  significantly. 

After  a  moment  of  hesitation  she  said,  slowly,  and 
with  a  sort  of  dull  heaviness, 

"How  could  that  be  ?  Please  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

But  he  did  not  answer  her  question. 

"Miss  Traill,"  he  said,  with  stern  coldness,  "don't 
you  think  it  would  be  wise  to  turn  over  this  case  to  me  ? 
It  is  all  very  well  to  play  about  with  neurotics.  Nerve 
cases  may  possibly  be  susceptible  sometimes  to  sugges 
tion.  Wild,  inconsequent  boys  may  be  influenced,  for  a 
time,  by  a  determined  woman.  But  what  can  you  hope 
to  achieve  with  a  man  of  iron  like  Sir  Hector?  You 
may  perhaps  kill  him  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  how  dare  you— how  dare  you?"  she  interrupted, 
with  sudden  passion. 

".  .  .by  not  treating  him  properly,"  pursued  Sir 
Mervyn  inflexibly.  "And  even  if  you  don't  do  that,  you 
may  easily  destroy  his  reputation  as  a  man  of  common 
sense,  a  man  with  a  great  brain,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
For  once  a  man  is  laughed  at  he  is  diminished  to  the 


THE  LOST  FAITH  175 

size  of  the  ordinary  fool  in  the  sight  of  all  those  who 
laugh  at  him.  But  cure  Sir  Hector  of  a  dangerous  ill 
ness  you  can't.  And  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  All 
this  faith  healing  bluff  is  perfectly  useless.  You  have 
nothing  to  gain  in  this  house,  and  everything  to  lose. 
For  your  own  sake  I  advise  you  to  go.  If  you  do  this 
and  if,  when  I  examine  the  patient,  I  find  no  reason  to 
take  any  other  course,  I  promise  to  let  you  alone/' 

"No  reason!"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "How  could 
there  be  a " 

Her  voice  died  away.  She  was  looking  at  him,  and 
now  he  saw  distinctly  fear  in  her  eyes. 

"You  think  .   .  .  you  imagine  that " 

Again  her  voice  failed,  as  if  smothered  by  emotion. 
A  deep  flush  spread  over  her  face  and  even  down  to 
her  neck.  She  bent  her  head  like  one  moved  almost  be 
yond  endurance,  clasped  her  hands  tightly  together,  and 
remained  still  for  two  or  three  minutes.  And  there  was 
something  so  terribly  sincere  in  her  look  and  attitude 
that  Sir  Mervyn  was  taken  aback  in  spite  of  himself, 
and  was  conscious  of  pity  mingled  with  a  sudden  per 
plexity.  As  Olivia  said  nothing  more,  and  the  silence 
at  last  became  intolerable  to  him,  he  broke  it  by  saying, 
in  a  voice  which  he  tried  to  make  as  hard  and  unemo 
tional  as  possible, 

"Now  you  have  my  promise,  will  you  leave  Sir  Hector 
in  my  hands?" 

Then  Olivia  looked  up. 

"Tell  me  why  you  think  I  am  here,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"To  carry  on  your  faith  healing  imposture,  I  suppose," 
returned  the  doctor,  trying  to  fight  against  the  suddeii 
change  which — he  scarcely  knew  why — had  taken  place 
in  his  feeling  towards  her  within  the  last  few  minutes. 

"I  have  not  been  a  humbug  in  my  life,"  she  said,  with 
intense  earnestness.  "I  have  believed  in  my  power  to 
heal.  I  have  believed  that  it  was  a  gift  made  to  me  by 
God." 


176  SNAKE-BITE 

"In  that  case  you  have  been  self -deceived.  But  that 
doesn't  make  you  any  the  less  a  public  danger." 

"I — I  will  never  bring  danger  to  him,"  she  said.  Tears 
stood  in  her  eyes. 

"You  don't  understand  me  at  all,"  she  added. 

"Indeed?" 

"No;  not  at  all.  But  how  should  you?  Why  should 
I  expect " 

She  got  up. 

"Please  go  up  to  him.  You  can  tell  him  I  asked  you 
to  because  I  was  afraid,  perhaps,  I  wasn't  capable 
oi 

She  stopped.     Sir  Mervyn  looked  away  from  her. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "You  have  done  the  right  thing 
at  last,  Miss  Traill." 

He  made  a  movement  to  go  but  she  stopped  him. 

"I'll  stay  here.  But  you  must  come  back  and  tell 
me  exactly  what  you  think.  I  must  know.  I  have  a  spe 
cial  reason.  I've  got  to  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
Sir  Hector." 

"Wait  here  then.    I  will  come  back  presently." 

He  saw  a  sort  of  agony  of  inquiry  in  her  eye? 

"You  promise  to  tell  me — whatever  it  is?" 

The  doctor  hesitated.  But  something  in  her  eyes  over 
came  any  reluctance  which  he  felt. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  said. 

"Very  well." 

He  left  the  room.  As  he  went  upstairs  he  wondered 
at  himself.  This  woman  had  made  an  impression  of 
sincerity  even  upon  him.  He  found  himself  pitying  her; 
he  even  found  himself  liking  her. 

When  he  had  gone  Olivia  walked  about  the  room  for 
a  few  minutes,  then  stood  at  the  window  and  looked  out 
into  the  square. 

The  twilight  was  falling  over  London.  The  darkness 
of  night  was  at  hand.  To-day,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  she  realised  imaginatively  the  horror  of  darkness, 
and  she  knew  that  she  did  this  because  there  was  dark- 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  177 

ness  in  her  own  soul.  As  she  gazed  out  of  the  window, 
she  understood  that  the  human  being  carries  everything 
within  those  mysterious  recesses  which  can  never  be  fully 
explored — heaven  and  hell,  light  and  darkness. 

"What  a  mystery  I  am !"  she  thought.  "And  I  used 
to  think  I  understood,  even  that  I  knew.  I  understand 
nothing.  I  know  nothing." 

How  incalculable  are  the  human  impulses!  She 
had  entered  that  room  a  few  minutes  ago  with  the  in 
tention  of  fighting  Sir  Mervyn,  in  spite  of  the  words  he 
had  written,  words  which  conveyed  a  scarcely  veiled 
threat.  And  now  she  had  capitulated.  And  Sir  Hector 
would  know  it,  would  know  that  she  had  no  faith  in  her 
self,  that  she  could  not  carry  out  her  job,  that  she  ac 
knowledged  herself  to  be  a  fraud.  And  yet  she  was  not 
a  fraud,  but  a  sincere  and  deeply  loving  woman. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  continuity  in  her  any  more. 
Her  purposes  were  divided,  antagonistic.  A  hideous  un 
certainty  replaced  her  old  firmness  and  strength.  She  had 
become  the  dwelling-place  of  warring  emotions.  Fear 
had  entered  into  her,  the  malady  which  carries  disease 
through  every  part  of  the  soul. 

Sir  Mervyn's  revelation  of  FernoPs  second  visit  to  the 
house  had  changed  a  horrible  suspicion  into  something 
more  definite,  into  a  tremendous  apprehension.  Very 
soon  no  doubt  she  would  know  the  truth.  Sir  Mervyn 
would  tell  her.  She  knew  that  an  abominable  thought 
about  her  had  entered  his  mind;  she  knew,  or  believed 
she  knew,  when  it  had  died  there.  He  was  no  longer  the 
enemy  he  had  been.  But  if  he  discovered  something 
terrible,  what  would  he  do?  Would  his  foul  suspicion 
revive?  It  might.  And  then 

She  saw  herself  plunged  in  the  mud  of  a  hideous 
scandal. 

At  last  she  came  away  from  the  window  and  sat  down 
near  the  fire.  And  there  she  remained  for  over  an  hour. 
No  one  came  to  her.  The  house  was  silent,  save  for  an 
occasional  footstep  overhead.  She  had  time  and  op- 


178  SNAKE-BITE 

portunity  for  what  seemed  a  lifetime  of  thought  and 
feeling.  And  all  the  time,  through  it  all,  she  was  wait 
ing  strung  up  like  one  accused  of  a  crime  for  the  verdict 
She  knew  herself  innocent,  and  yet  she  was  weighed  down 
by  a  sensation  of  acute  apprehension,  almost  of  guilt. 
At  that  moment  she  realised  as  never  before  the  respon 
sibility  she  had  assumed  when  she  undertook  to  heal 
others.  She  had  become  answerable  for  Fernol. 

Would  Sir  Mervyn  never  come  down?  What  could 
be  happening  upstairs?  What  could  he  be  doing?  She 
thought  of  Sir  Hector  sleeping  with  her  hand  on  his 
forehead.  He  had  only  slept  for  a  very  short  time,  but 
he  had  yielded  to  her  influence.  A  painful  jealousy  in 
vaded  her  as  the  time  went  on,  tingled  all  through  her. 
She  began  almost  to  regret  that  she  had  abdicated.  Per 
haps  all  her  fear  and  suspicion  were  ridiculous.  Sud 
denly  it  occurred  to  her  that  Sir  Mervyn  might  have 
come  to  the  house  that  day  with  a  deliberate  policy.  He 
might  have  made  up  his  mind  to  frighten  her  in  order  to 
get  her  away  from  the  patient.  The  medical  profession 
was  notoriously  prejudiced,  and  Sir  Mervyn  had  shown 
a  special  animosity  against  her  ever  since  her  arrival  in 
England,  and  even  before  he  knew  her.  Besides,  she  had 
perhaps  cured  the  patient  whom  he  had  been  unable  to 
cure.  That  fact  alone  was  enough  to  make  him  hate  her. 
And  as  he  had  failed  with  Miss  Burnington,  he  might  fail 
with  Sir  Hector. 

She  got  up,  threw  his  note  into  the  fire,  and  went  to 
wards  the  door.  She  felt  at  that  moment  driven,  and 
capable  almost  of  an  act  of  violence.  This  prolonged  de 
lay  was  insupportable  to  her.  She  wished  to  put  an  end 
to  it.  She  would  go  up  to  the  sick  man's  room  and  find 
out  for  herself  what  was  happening.  But  as  she  opened 
the  door  she  saw  Sir  Mervyn  coming  down  the  stairs  with 
Miss  Burnington.  At  that  moment  she  hated  them  both. 
Her  jealousy  made  her  hate  them. 

She  stopped.    Miss  Burnington  came  up  to  her. 


THE  LOST  FAITJI  179 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Traill,"  she  said.  "You  have  done 
the  right  thing  and  I  am  grateful  to  you." 

Olivia  said  nothing.  She  did  not  dare  to  speak  lest 
she  should  say  something  violent  or  horrible,  something 
unforgivable,  which  would  oblige  her  to  leave  that  house 
and  render  her  return  to  it  impossible.  Miss  Burnington 
looked  at  her  in  surprise,  as  if  expecting  some  words  from 
her,  and  then  added, 

"I  am  going  downstairs  to  give  some  directions.  I 
believe  Sir  Mervyn  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

"Very  well,"  Olivia  forced  herself  to  say. 

Still  looking  surprised,  Miss  Burnington  went  on  down 
the  stairs  and  Olivia  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  fol 
lowed  by  Sir  Mervyn,  who  shut  the  door  carefully  be 
hind  him. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Olivia,  as  he  came  towards  her. 

"I  am  not  certain  yet,  but  I  think  he  is  probably  in 
the  first  stage  of  typhoid  fever." 

Olivia  was  conscious  of  a  strange  sense  of  deep  relief, 
as  if  a  burden  fell  from  her.  But  there  mingled  with  it 
a  feeling  of  outrage. 

"I  thought  it  might  be  typhoid,"  she  said. 

"You  didn't  say  so." 

"What  would  have  been  the  good  ?  What  am  I  to  say 
anything  to  a  doctor?  But  now,  haven't  you  anything 
to  say  to  me  ?" 

The  sense  of  outrage  was  growing  in  her.  She  felt  it 
burning  her. 

"To  say !  Well,  I  suppose  you  realise  now  what  would 
have  happened  if  a  doctor  had  not  been  called  in?" 

"I  didn't  mean  that  at  all." 

"Please  tell  me  what  you  did  mean." 

"Did  you  come  here  intending  to  frighten  me?" 

"I  came  here  because  I  was  asked — begged  to  come." 

"I  daresay  you  did.  But  wasn't  it  your  policy  to 
frighten  me?" 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"That  note  of  yours  for  one  thing." 


180  SNAKE-BITE 

"Why  should  my  note  have  frightened  you?" 

"What  did  you  intend  to  convey  by  it?" 

"Exactly  what  I  wrote.  If  you  had  not  come  down 
to  see  me,  I  should  certainly  have  gone  to  see  Mr.  West." 

"Why?  What  did  you " 

She  paused.  She  felt  like  one  on  the  edge  of  danger. 
Yet  something  drove  her  to  take  the  onward  step. 

"What  did  you  suspect?" 

The  doctor  hesitated.    At  last  he  said, 

"Under  the  present  circumstances  I  don't  think  it  is 
necessary  to  say." 

"That  means  that  you  acknowledge  how  erroneous, 
how — how  monstrous  your  suspicion  was." 

"You  can  interpret  my  meaning  as  you  like,"  he  re 
plied  coldly. 

"Is  that  your  idea  of  honesty?  Is  that  the  English 
idea?"  she  said  bitterly. 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  anything  I  have 
done,"  he  said,  inflexibly. 

"But  that  wasn't  all.  When  I  came  down  to  see  you 
you  hinted  .  .  .  you  implied  that  .  .  .  that  ...  I  can't 
say  it!" 

"Miss  Traill,  as  you  have  brought  up  this  very  painful 
subject,  I  am  willing  to  say  to  you  that  I  believe  I  have 
made  a  mistake  about  you,  though  I  consider  it  a  not 
wholly  unnatural  one.  Since  I  have  seen  you  to-day  I  do 
believe  in  your  bona  fides.  I  thought  you  a  conscious 
charlatan.  Now  I  think  you  merely  a  self-deceived 


woman." 


"I  made  him  sleep  only  this  very  day  when  the  fever 
was  on  him." 

"Indeed!  For  how  long?" 

"Not  for  long.    But  doesn't  that  show " 

"It  really  is  useless  for  us  to  argue  about  it.  I  con 
sider  all  faith  healing  an  absolute  imposture." 

"And  Miss  Burnington's  cure?" 

He  replied  to  her  question  by  another. 

"And  Mr.  Fernol  West's  cure  ?"  he  retorted. 


THE  LOST  FAITH  181 

Olivia  winced.  Sir  Mervyn  saw  it  and  mercilessly 
pressed  his  advantage. 

"What  of  that?"  he  said.  "I  have  just  told  you  that 
I  have  come — I  scarcely  know  how  or  why — to  believe  in 
your  honesty.  Tell  me-— do  you  honestly  believe  you  have 
made  that  young  fellow  sound  ?" 

"I — I  thought  I  had.  His  parents,  his  friends,  every 
one  thought  I  had." 

"And  do  you  think  so  still?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"That  is  honest,"  he  said,  almost  with  heartiness. 

"You  only  met  Fernol  once.     How  can  you " 

"Miss  Traill,"  he  said.  "I  will  match  your  honesty 
with  mine.  To  see  a  man  like  Mr.  West  once  is  enough 
for  anyone  trained  as  I  am,  fortified  as  I  am  by  a  long 
medical  experience.  Shall  I  tell  you  exactly  what  I  think 
about  him?" 

"Tell  me." 

"I  think  he's  acutely  neurotic.  I'll  go  further.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  has  the  seeds  of  madness  in 
him." 

"Madness! — Fernol!"  she  whispered. 

He  had  put  her  fear  into  words,  and  by  doing  so  had 
given  it  a  vehement  life  such  as  it  had  not  had  before. 

"Why — what  has  he  done  to  make  you  think  he  is 
mad?" 

"I  don't  say  he  has  done  anything.  I  have  no  actual 
proof  of  his  madness.  But  have  you  never  had  the  same 
suspicion  as  I  have?" 

Olivia  tried  to  say  "no,"  but  her  lips  made  no  sound. 

"Such  an  accident  as  I  understand  he  had,  might  easily 
have  an  effect  on  the  brain  from  which  it  could  never 
recover,"  said  Sir  Mervyn. 

"Then  do  you  still  think — but  you  say  you  believe  it  is 
typhoid?" 

"I  think  it  probably  is." 

"Then "  she  paused,  looking  at  him. 

At  this  moment  the  drawing-room  door  opened  and 


182  SNAKE-BITE 

Miss  Burnington  came  in  hurriedly,  with  a  newspaper  in 
her  hand.  She  looked  greatly  agitated. 

"I've  telephoned  as  you  told  me  to,"  she  said  to  Sir 
Mervyn.  "But  oh,  the  worst  that  I  feared  has  happened." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Look  at  this !  In  the  evening  paper !  And  I  hear  they 
telephoned  from  the  office  some  time  ago  to  have  it  con 
firmed  before  putting  it  in.  Sidney  answered  and  told 
them  it  was  nonsense,  that  my  brother  only  had  a  slight 
cold,  but  they  have  put  it  in  all  the  same." 

"Our  Yellow  Press!"  said  Sir  Mervyn,  taking  the 
paper  from  her.  "Where  is  it  ?"  he  asked. 

Miss  Burnington  pointed  to  a  paragraph.  He  read 
it. 

"This  must  be  contradicted  at  once — to-night,"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Miss  Traill — read  it.  I  shall  want  you  to  au 
thorise  a  contradiction." 

As  he  spoke  he  handed  the  paper  to  Olivia,  and  she 
read  the  following  words : 

SIR  HECTOR  BURNINGTON  AND  THE 
FAITH  HEALER. 

As  we  go  to  press  we  learn  that  the  famous  general, 
Sir  Hector  Burnington,  who  has  been  mentioned  as 
the  probable  future  Viceroy  of  India,  has  been  seized 
with  sudden  and  severe  illness.  We  are  informed 
that  he  has  refused  to  call  in  a  doctor  and  has  placed 
himself  unreservedly  in  the  hands  of  the  American 
faith  healer,  Miss  Olivia  Traill,  whose  name  has  been 
so  much  before  the  public  of  late,  and  whose  methods 
have  brought  forth  such  severe  condemnation  from 
the  medical  profession.  This  will  be  a  hard  blow  for 
the  doctors.  It  will  also  probably  come  as  a  surprise 
to  the  public,  who,  hitherto,  have  been  under  the  im 
pression  that  Sir  Hector  Burnington  did  not  estimate 
the  capacity  of  women  too  highly.  In  our  late  edi 
tion  we  hope  to  be  able  to  state  the  exact  nature  of 
the  great  general's  illness.  Our  informant  was  un- 


THE  LOST  FAITH  183 

able  to  satisfy  our  curiosity  on  this  point.  But  that 
Miss  Olivia  Traill  is  in  charge  of  the  case  there  is 
no  doubt  whatever. 

As  Olivia  looked  up  from  the  paper  she  met  Miss  Burn- 
ington's  eyes. 

"If  this  isn't  contradicted  at  once  it  will  ruin  Hector !" 
said  Miss  Burnington  bitterly.  "What  can  we  do  ?" 

Before  either  Sir  Mervyn  or  Olivia  could  answer  the 
footman  opened  the  door.  Miss  Burnington  turned  with 
nervous  abruptness. 

"What  is  it,  John?" 

"A  gentleman  has  called,  Ma'am.  He  says  he  is  a  rep 
resentative  of  the  Evening  Dispatch  and  begs  to  see  you 
for  a  moment.  He  also  asked  for  Miss  Traill,  Ma'am." 

"For  Miss  Traill?  Did  you  tell  him  Miss  Traill  was 
in  the  house?" 

"He  knew  it,  Ma'am.  He  said :  'I  know  Miss  Olivia 
Traill  is  in  the  house.  Please  ask  her  to  give  me  a  mo 
ment.  I  shall  only  keep  her  a  moment/  ' 

"Oh,  Sir  Mervyn!   What  shall  we " 

"May  I  settle  the  matter?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Oh,  yes.     Please  do  what  you  think  best." 

"Very  well." 

He  turned  to  the  footman. 

"Please  show  the  gentleman  into  the  library,  and  say 
that  Sir  Mervyn  Butler,  of  Harley  Street,  will  be  down 
to  see  him  in  a  moment." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  footman  went  out. 

"This  visit  is  providential,"  said  Sir  Mervyn.  "We 
shall  be  able  to  get  a  dementi  out  at  once  and  knock  this 
rumour  on  the  head  before  the  papers  have  time  to  turn 
it  into  a  sensation.  But  you  must  help  us,  Miss  Traill." 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?"  asked  Olivia. 

"I  shall  ask  you  to  give  me  a  written  statement  to  take 
to  that  man  downstairs.  Of  course  you  realise  who  the 


184  SNAKE-BITE 

informant  mentioned  here" — he  struck  the  paper  with 
his  forefinger — "must  be?" 

"I  ?  How  should  I  know  ?  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  When  Sir  Hector  called  me  in  I  told  him  that  if  I 
was  able  to  cure  him  I  should  like  him  to  promise  me 
never  to  tell  anyone  either  that  he  was  ill  or  that  I  had 
been  able  to  help  him.  If  you  don't  believe  me  ask  him." 

Sir  Mervyn  and  Miss  Burnington  exchanged  glances. 

"You  really  told  him  that!"  said  the  doctor. 

"Yes." 

"That  was,  I  must  say,  very  fine  of  you,"  he  said. 
"Very  disinterested  indeed." 

"I  only  wanted  to  cure  him,  nothing  but  that." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Burnington.  "I'm 
afraid  I " 

"Oh,  please — never  mind!"  said  Olivia.  "You  have 
both  of  you  misunderstood  me  utterly." 

There  was  an  awkward  silence,  which  the  doctor  broke 
by  saying, 

"Surely  you  realise  that  the  informant  who  gave  this 
information  to  the  Press  must  have  been  Mr.  West." 

"Perhaps  it  was." 

"Of  course  it  was." 

"How  could  I  help  it?" 

"You  couldn't.     But  only  you  can  kill  this  rumour." 

"But  it  was  true." 

"It  isn't  true  now,"  said  Miss  Burnington. 

"We  must  give  out  a  statement  which  must  go  into  the 
paper  to-night  if  possible,"  said  Sir  Mervyn,  going  over 
to  the  writing  table.  "The  only  question  is  how  to  word 
it." 

He  sat  down,  took  a  pen  and  drew  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper  towards  him. 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  Miss  Traill,  I'll  write  down 
what  I  think  will  do,  read  it  out  to  you  and  then  ask  you 
to  copy  and  sign  it." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  in  a  dull  voice. 

Suddenly  she  felt  tired.    She  longed  to  lie  down,  shut 


THE  LOST  FAITJI  185 

her  eyes  and  forget  everything;  forget  her  old  enthu 
siasms,  forget  her  lost  faith,  forget  Fernol  West  and  the 
devotion  to  her  which  had  brought  about  this  horrible 
situation,  forget  even  Sir  Hector  and  her  great  love  for 
him.  She  knew  that  Sir  Mervyn  was  right.  She  knew 
that  it  must  be  Fernol  who  was  responsible  for  the  dread 
ful  paragraph  which,  perhaps,  hundreds  of  people  were 
reading,  and  repeating  to  other  hundreds  at  that  very 
moment.  And  she  was  scarcely  able  to  doubt  any  longer 
that  Fernol  was  also  responsible  for  something  else — 
for  something  so  terrible  that  the  mere  thought  of  it 
would  surely  make  her  life  hideous  to  her  for  ever.  For 
the  first  time  she  felt  the  burden  of  existence  as  a  loath 
some  load  which  she  longed  to  cast  away  from  her.  For 
the  first  time  she  thoroughly  understood  the  temptation 
of  suicide. 

"Let  me  see !"  said  a  meditative  voice. 

She  looked  across  the  room.  Sir  Mervyn  had  drawn 
out  a  pair  of  spectacles  rimmed  with  tortoise-shell  and 
perched  them  on  his  broad  nose.  Miss  Burnington  had 
gone  to  stand  near  him  and  was  looking  over  his  shoulder. 
She  stared  at  them  both,  and  they  both  seemed  remote 
from  her.  It  was  difficult  for  her  to  believe  that  this  man 
and  this  woman  had  anything  to  do  with  her.  Sir  Mer 
vyn  moved  his  lips,  as  if  silently  forming  some  words, 
and  frowned,  wrinkling  his  ample  forehead.  Then  he 
bent  over  the  paper  and  wrote,  slowly,  occasionally  stop 
ping  for  a  moment  to  consider.  Presently  he  paused  and 
turned  towards  Miss  Burnington. 

"Do  you  think  that  will  do?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Miss  Burnington  bent  nearer  to  the  paper. 

"Admirable!"  she  said,  after  a  moment.  "The  very 
thing." 

"I  think  so.   ...  I  think  so!" 

He  looked  across  to  Olivia  over  his  spectacles. 

"Miss  Traill !" 

Olivia  heard  a  voice  say  "Yes." 

"I'll  just  read  out  what  I  have  written." 


186  SNAKE-BITE 

He  paused. 

"You  are  listening,  Miss  Traill?" 
Again  the  voice  said,  "Yes." 
"This  is  it" 

He  cleared  his  throat,  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
read  in  a  loud  and  important  voice: 

"A  paragraph  in  the  'Evening  Dispatch'  has  just  been 
brought  to  my  notice  containing  the  statement  that,  seized 
zvith  sudden  illness.  General  Sir  Hector  Burnington  has 
refused  to  call  in  a  doctor,  and  has  placed  himself  unre 
servedly  in  my  hands.  I  wish  to  deny  emphatically  tlwt 
there  is  any  truth  in  this  statement.  I  am  not  attending 
Sir  Hector  Burnington,  who  is  being  treated  by  Sir 
Mervyn  Butler,  of  2  IB,  Harley  Street.  I  must  ask  you 
to  give  this  denial  publicity.  The  fact  that  I  have  been  to 
Sir  Hector  Burningtoris  house  merely  as  a  friend  to  in- 
quire  after  his  health  has  doubtless  given  rise  to  this 
ridiculous  rumour" 

Sir  Mervyn  looked  across  again  at  Olivia. 

"And  then  your  signature,"  he  said. 

"You  want  me  to  sign  that?"  said  Olivia. 

"If  you  kindly  will.  And  I  shall  ask  you  to  copy  it  out 
first.  ...  It  must  be  in  your  own  handwriting." 

Olivia  crossed  the  room  slowly.  Sir  Mervyn  got  up 
from  the  table. 

"Here  is  the  pen." 

"Thank  you." 

She  took  it  and  sat  down.  For  a  moment  the  written 
words  swam  before  her  eyes.  Then  they  grew  clear.  She 
began  to  copy  them  slowly  and  carefully.  Sir  Mervyn 
and  Miss  Burnington,  who  at  first  had  stood  behind  her, 
left  her  and  went  softly  over  to  the  fireplace.  She  heard 
them  whispering  together  as  she  wrote.  And  she  felt  as 
if  she  were  writing  her  own  condemnation.  Presently 
she  came  to  the  last  sentence,  to  the  final  words:  "this 
ridiculous  rumour."  There  she  stopped.  She  still  kept 


THE  LOST  FAITH  187 

the  pen  in  her  hand ;  she  still  leaned  over  the  paper.  Her 
eyes  stared  at  the  word  "ridiculous."  That  was  what 
she  had  become — ridiculous;  ridiculous  in  her  own  eyes, 
and  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  she  loved.  How  had  he 
taken  that  confession  of  hers?  She  did  not  know  that 
yet.  She  looked  across  the  room  to  those  two  figures 
by  the  fire.  They  were  no  longer  whispering  together. 
They  were  silent  now,  watching  her. 

"Is  anything  the  matter,  Miss  Traill?"  said  Sir  Mer- 
vyn's  voice.  "Is  there  anything  in  the  wording  you  ob 
ject  to?" 

"Oh — no!  I  have  no  right — none — to  object  to  any 
thing  now.  It  is  not  true,  of  course,  but  how  can  I 
object?" 

"I  don't  understand.    What  is  it  then?" 

And  he  came  towards  the  writing  table,  looking  curi 
ously  at  her. 

"What  did  he  say  when  you  told  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"He?" 

"What  did  Sir  Hector  say?" 

"He  was  too  ill  to  say  much." 

"But  what  did  he  say?" 

"As  far  as  I  remember,  he  said,  Very  well — if  she  can't 
manage  it,  do  the  best  you  can/  " 

"That  was  all?" 

"He  added,  'I  was  willing  to  pay  my  debt/  I  think 
his  mind  was  beginning  to  wander." 

"Thank  you." 

She  leaned  down  over  the  paper,  copied  out  the  last 
sentence,  and  signed  her  name  at  the  bottom. 

"Here  it  is !"  she  said,  getting  up. 

Sir  Mervyn  took  the  paper  and  read  it  carefully. 

"That's  quite  right.  Thank  you,  Miss  Traill.  Now 
I'll  go  down." 

He  turned  to  Miss  Burnington. 

"I  shall  only  be  a  few  minutes." 

And  he  left  the  two  women  together. 


188  SNAKE-BITE 

"Won't  you  come  to  the  fire?"  said  Miss  Burnington, 
after  a  silence. 

The  voice  was  gentle,  almost  pleading. 

"I  am  not  cold,  thank  you." 

"But  do  come  and  sit  down.  You  must  wait  and  just 
hear  the  result  of  Sir  Mervyn's  interview  with  this  man." 

"Yes." 

Olivia  went  over  to  the  fire  and  sat  down. 

"I'm  very  sorry  about  all  this — very,"  said  Miss  Burn 
ington  in  a  quick,  anxious  voice.  "I  know  you  must 
think  me  a  most  ungrateful  woman.  I  am  really  dis 
tressed.  But — but  I  love  my  brother  very  much.  And 
he  is  of  such  inestimable  value  to  his  country  that  I  felt 
obliged  to  do  what  I  did.  Can  you  understand?  Can 
you  try  to  forgive  me?" 

"I  understand,"  said  Olivia. 

"Anything  I  can  do  to  show  you  how  I  feel  about  you 
I  will  gladly  do.  If  you  think — if  it  would  be  any  good 
— I  will  say  that  I — that  I  owe  my  own  cure  to  you." 

"You  don't!"  said  Olivia. 

"But  surely " 

"You  don't.  I  can't  heal  anyone.  I  have  no  faith  in 
myself." 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  say " 

"I  say  that  I  have  deceived  myself.  I  thought  I  pos 
sessed  a  power  which  I  didn't  possess.  You  were  quite 
right  not  to  believe  in  me.  You  saw  what  I  didn't  see, 
what  Fernol  and  the  others  didn't  see.  You  needn't  re 
proach  yourself.  I  didn't  cure  you.  I  didn't  cure  Fernol. 
And  I  could  never  have  cured  your  brother.  I  shall  never 
again  attempt  to  heal  anyone." 

"I — I  am  sorry!"  said  Miss  Burnington,  almost  help 
lessly. 

Again  the  silence  fell  between  them.  It  lasted  a  long 
time.  Olivia  broke  it  at  length  by  saying : 

"Is  he  very  ill?" 

"I'm  afraid  he  is.  We've  sent  for  a  trained  nurse. 
Meanwhile,  Sidney,  his  valet,  a  most  devoted  man,  is 


THE  LOST  FAITH  189 

with  him.  I  shall  go  up  directly  Sir  Mervyn  comes 
back." 

"Many  people  recover  from  typhoid,  don't  they?" 

"Yes.    We— we  hope  for  the  best." 

Again  the  silence  fell.  And  this  time  it  lasted  till  Sir 
Mervyn  came  back. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  found  the  young  man  quite 
amenable.  Your  denial  will  appear  in  the  late  edition 
to-night,  Miss  Traill." 

"I  am  glad." 

"And  I've  written  and  signed  a  bulletin  which  will  be 
affixed  to  the  front  door.  That  is  necessary.  There  have 
been  several  inquiries  since  I  went  down-stairs.  Mr. 
West  has  been  again." 

"Mr.  West!"  said  Miss  Burnington.  "Did  you  see 
him?" 

"No.  John  told  me.  He  came  just  as  I  was  about  to 
go  into  the  library.  I  forbade  John  to  let  him  in,  or  to 
trouble  you  about  it." 

"Does  he  know  you  are  here?" 

"Yes.  I  understand  John  had  some  difficulty  in  get 
ting  rid  of  him.  But  he's  gone  now." 

Sir  Mervyn  looked  at  Olivia,  who  had  sat  in  silence 
during  this  short  conversation  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
him. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  addressing  Miss  Burnington,  "that 
it  would  be  well  if  you  returned  to  your  brother." 

"Yes,  yes,  I'll  go!"  she  said,  getting  up  quickly. 

"I'll  follow  you  almost  directly.  I  expect  Nurse  Swann 
will  be  here  in  a  moment." 

Miss  Burnington  turned  to  Olivia. 

"If  I  don't  see  you  again  to-night "  she  said. 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

Olivia  took  it 

"Thank  you  for  all  you  have  done." 

And  she  left  the  room.  Then  Sir  Mervyn  turned  very 
gravely  to  Olivia. 

"I  didn't  wish  to  say  anything  about  it  to  Miss  Burn- 


190  SNAKE-BITE 

ington.  She  has  enough  to  trouble  her  already.  And 
I'm  afraid  undue  excitement  might  make  her  ill  again. 
But  I  must  tell  you.  John  informed  me  that  Mr.  West 
was  in  a  very  excited  state  when  he  called  just  now." 

"Excited!"  said  Olivia.  "How — how  did  he  show 
it?" 

"When  he  heard  I  was  in  attendance  on  Sir  Hector 
he  became  violent  and  wished  to  force  his  way  into  the 
house.  He  demanded  to  see  you.  John  was  obliged  to 
get  rid  of  him  by  telling  him  a  lie." 

"What  lie?" 

"John  said  you  weren't  here,  that  you  had  gone  home." 

"And  then " 

"He  went  away  muttering  angrily  to  himself.  I'm 
afraid  we  shall  have  trouble  with  him.  There's  no  doubt 
in  my  mind  that  a  doctor  ought  to  see  him." 

"Poor  Fernol!"  she  said.    "Poor  Fernol!" 

"It's  a  grievous  business.     Is  he  living  quite  alone?" 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"At  the  Savoy  Hotel." 

"It's  difficult  to  know  what  to  do.  It  would  be  worse 
than  useless  for  me  to  come  into  contact  with  him.  He 
has  conceived  a  violent  hatred  against  me  no  doubt. 
He  said  as  much  to  the  footman.  And  I  saw  it  that 
evening  I  met  him  here.  I  think  the  best  thing  I  can  do 
is  to  give  you  the  address  of  a  first-rate  man  in  such 
cases." 

He  took  out  a  card  and  wrote  on  it  a  name  and  address 
in  pencil. 

"You  might  communicate  with  him.  He  will  advise 
you  better  than  I  can." 

"Who  is  he?"  said  Olivia. 

"The  best  specialist  we  have  for — for  mental  cases. 
And  now  I  must  go  to  Sir  Hector!" 

"Good  night,"  said  Olivia. 

She  took  the  card. 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  191 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  grasped  hers,  almost 
with  cordiality. 

"One  word  more !" 

"Yes?" 

"I  must  warn  you  against  seeing  Mr.  West  alone  for 
the  present.  Don't  communicate  with  him.  Don't  let 
him  in.  Have  you  any  servants?" 

"No ;  I'm  quite  alone." 

"On  no  account  let  him  in." 

'Thank  you." 

The  footman  opened  the  door. 

"Nurse  Swann  has  just  come,  sir." 

"Good !    Send  her  up  to  Miss  Burnington." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  footman  went  out.  Sir  Mervyn  hesitated,  al 
though  there  was  surely  nothing  more  to  be  said  between 
him  and  Olivia. 

"I  don't  quite  like  your  going  away  alone,"  he  said. 

"I  am  accustomed  to  being  alone." 

"Yes— but  to-night!" 

Suddenly  he  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called 
down  the  staircase. 

"John!  John!" 

"Yes,  sir?"  came  the  footman's  voice  from  below. 

"Please  call  a  cab  for  Miss  Traill." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  doctor  came  back. 

"Drive  home.    I  would  rather  you  didn't  walk." 

"Very  well." 

"Do  you  live  in  a  flat?" 

"Yes." 

"There's  a  hall  porter?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  promise  me  to  take  him  up  with  you  as 
far  as  your  flat  door?" 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  anything." 

"No,  no;  of  course  not.    But  will  you  do  as  I  say?" 

"If  you  wish  it." 


192  SNAKE-BITE 

"And  on  no  account  allow  Mr.  West  to  be  shown 
up  if  he  should  call.  He  probably  won't.  But  he  might. 
Good  night  again." 

Again  he  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it.  Then  they 
parted.  Olivia  went  downstairs  and  he  went  up  to  his 
patient. 

Olivia  had  to  wait  a  few  minutes  in  the  hall  while  the 
footman  stood  on  the  pavement  with  his  whistle  at  his 
lips.  She  looked  into  the  darkness,  searching  for  the 
figure  of  a  man.  She  saw  no  one.  At  last  a  cab  glided 
up. 

As  she  drove  away  in  the  darkness  she  knew  what 
it  was  to  feel  lonely.  Everything  that  had  meant  life 
to  her  seemed  to  have  fallen  away  from  her  suddenly. 
She  had  failed  in  her  job;  or,  rather,  she  had  thrown 
it  up  because  she  feared  failure.  The  main  purpose  of 
her  existence  had  been  withdrawn  out  of  her  reach. 
For  with  the  abrupt  fading  of  her  faith  had  vanished 
for  ever  any  power  of  healing  she — perhaps — had  once 
possessed.  She  knew  quite  well  that  she  would  never 
dare  to  try  to  heal  anyone  again.  She  could  never  be 
such  a  humbug  as  to  attempt  without  faith  that  which 
she  believed  could  only  be  accomplished  with  faith.  Her 
career,  therefore,  was  at  an  end.  The  man  whom  she 
loved  might  die.  If  he  lived  it  could  surely  be  only  to 
despise  her.  Her  chief  friend  in  London  had  become  to 
her  a  reason  for  apprehension,  almost  for  horror.  To 
think  of  him  was  to  feel  a  cold  breath  from  the  abyss,  to 
know  the  shuddering  of  nightmare. 

Yes,  she  knew  loneliness  that  night. 

Sir  Mervyn's  reiterated  warnings  had  not  brought  to 
the  birth  in  her  any  physical  fear.  The  fear  that  com 
panioned  her  was  wholly  of  the  imagination  and  of — 
she  fancied — the  most  intimate  region  of  the  heart. 

"Poor  Fernol !"  she  thought.     "Poor  Fernol!" 

So  the  tragic  grip  had  taken  hold  of  him.  The  sharp 
fangs  of  an  evil  fate  had  fastened  themselves  in  him. 
And  all  her  energy,  her  will,  her  faith,  her  long  effort 


THE  LOST  FAITH  193 

had  been  wholly  in  vain.  She  thought  of  his  mother  and 
father  far  away  in  America,  and  the  tears  rose  in  her 
eyes.  It  was  almost  incredibly  sad. 

When  the  cab  drew  up  before  Buckingham  Palace 
Mansions  she  looked  quickly  out  through  the  window. 
There  was  no  one  waiting  before  the  entrance.  She  got 
out,  paid  the  fare,  and  went  in.  The  porter  in  uniform 
stood  by  the  lift 

"Has  anyone  been  here  for  me?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Ma'am." 

"Mr.  West?" 

"No,  Ma'am.    Lord  Sandring." 

And  he  gave  her  a  card  with  Lord  Sandring's  name 
on  it  and  some  words  pencilled  on  the  back.  Without 
reading  them,  she  stepped  into  the  lift  and  was  taken 
up  to  her  floor. 

"You  might  just  open  the  door  for  me,"  she  said  to  the 
porter. 

"Certainly,  Ma'am." 

He  inserted  his  key  and  opened  the  door.  She  went 
into  the  little  hall.  As  he  was  about  to  close  the  door 
she  said : 

"Just  a  moment!" 

"Ma'am?" 

Sir  Mervyn's  last  warning  was  present  in  her  mind: 
"On  no  account  allow  Mr.  West  to  be  shown  up  if  he 
should  call."  She  had  made  no  promise  to  obey  it, 
but  now,  as  she  recalled  the  look  in  the  doctor's  face,  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  she  resolved  that  she  would. 

"If  Mr.  Fernol  West  should  call  to-night,  please  don't 
show  him  up,"  she  said. 

"Very  well,  Ma'am.    I'm  to  say  you  are  out?" 

"Yes,  please.    Wait!  You  are  sure  to  be  in  the  hall?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Ma'am.    I  shall  be  there." 

"Thank  you." 

He  left  her  and  shut  the  door,  leaving  her  to  her  im 
mense  loneliness.  She  went  into  the  bedroom,  took  off 
her  jacket  and  hat,  then  walked  to  the  little  drawing- 


194  SNAKE-BITE 

room  and  turned  on  the  electric  light.  Lord  Sandring's 
card  was  still  in  her  hand,  with  the  card  given  to  her 
by  Sir  Mervyn.  She  turned  the  former  over  and  read : 

"Just  seen  the  'Evening  Dispatch.'  This  is  grand.  That 
HE  should  be  among  the  believers!  Ecco  un  trionfo! — S." 

Ecco  un  trionfo!  Poor  Lord  Sandring !  His  joy  would 
soon  be  turned  into  bitterness.  She  laid  down  the  two 
cards,  and  looked  round  the  familiar  little  room,  which 
she  had  actually  been  able  to  think  of  as  home  since  she 
had  been  in  London.  Now  it  was  the  cage  of  her  loneli 
ness.  She  was  confined  in  it  with  the  hours.  The  night 
lay  before  her,  and  then — all  the  future.  She  thought  of 
beasts  in  captivity,  going  to  and  fro  behind  the  bars  with 
their  wild  eyes  fixed  on  the  other  side  of  the  world. 
What  had  she  to  look  to  ? 

The  two  armchairs  by  the  fire,  with  their  suggestion 
of  repose,  of  meditation,  or  of  happy  talks,  made  her 
shiver  when  she  looked  at  them.  She  glanced  again  at 
Lord  Sandring's  card.  She  would  write  to  him.  It  would 
be  something  to  do  and  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that 
he  should  know  the  exact  position  of  affairs  in  regard 
to  herself.  She  owed  him  an  immediate  explanation. 
She  tore  up  his  card,  sat  down,  and  began  to  write  to  him 
her  confession  of  impotence.  As  she  wrote  a  sort  of 
brutal  desire  to  hurt  herself  woke  up  in  her.  In  the 
strongest  words  at  her  command  she  described  her  com 
plete  disbelief  in  her  own  powers,  her  absolute  deter 
mination  never  again  to  attempt  to  heal  any  living 
creature. 

"You  'mil  never  see  me  again  at  the  Bureau.  I  know 
I  shall  cause  you  great  pain  by  this  letter,  but  anything 
is  better  than  pretence.  I  cannot  play  the  humbug  with 
you,  or  with  anyone.  I  know  my  own  impotence  t  and  I 
wish  everyone  who  has  heard  of  me  to  know  it  too.  I 
am.  not  more  than  others;  I  am  less,  because  I  have  made 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  195 

claims  which  have  no  basis  of  fact.  I  can  do  no  good  to 
anyone.  I  may  have  even  done  harm  to  many.  I  don't 
know.  But  I  do  know  that,  from  to-night,  I  will  never 
set  myself  up  as  the  superior  of  others.  As  to  Sir  Hector 
Burnington,  I  am  not  attending  him.  He  knows  I  con 
sider  myself  quite  incapable  of  curing  him  of  his  illness. 
Sir  Mervyn  Butler  is  with  him.  Forgive  me  the  disap 
pointment  and  pain  this  letter  will  cause  you,  and,  with 
gratitude  for  all  your  kindness, 
"Believe  me, 

"Your  sincere  friend, 

"OLIVIA  TRAILL." 

She  put  this  letter  into  an  envelope,  addressed  it, 
stamped  it,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  It  could  go  by  the 
morning's  post.  She  did  not  want  to  go  outside  the 
flat  door,  or  to  ring  and  call  the  porter  up  to  her.  Yet, 
perhaps,  it  would  be  best  if  Lord  Sandring  got  it  by  the 
first  post  on  the  morrow  with  the  newspapers  containing 
her  statement.  (She  had  little  doubt  that  many  of  the 
papers  would  copy  the  announcement  in  the  late  edition 
of  the  Evening  Dispatch.)  Perhaps  she  ought  to  send 
away  the  letter  that  night.  After  some  hesitation — she 
seemed  to  be  made  up  of  hesitation  now — she  rang  the 
bell  for  the  porter.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came  up,  let 
himself  in  with  his  key,  and  opened  the  door. 

"You  rang  for  me,  Ma'am?" 

"Yes." 

She  took  up  the  letter. 

"Could  you  put  this  in  the  post  for  me  ?" 

"Certainly,  Ma'am." 

She  gave  him  the  letter  and  he  turned  to  go.  But  when 
he  was  just  going  out  of  the  room  she  called  ham 
back. 

"One  moment!" 

"Ma'am?" 

"If  Mr.  West  should  call  I— I  think  I  will  see  him." 

"Very  well,  Ma'am." 


196  SNAKE-BITE 

She  saw  a  faint  look  of  surprise  on  his  stolid  face. 

"I  am  to  show  him  up  then,  Ma'am  ?" 

"Well — yes.  Yes,  show  him  up.  But  perhaps  he 
won't  call." 

"I  couldn't  say,  Ma'am." 

The  expression  of  surprise  grew  more  definite.  He 
stood  for  a  moment,  then  walked  heavily  out. 

Had  she  really  summoned  him,  not  because  of  the  let 
ter,  but  on  account  of  Fernol?  She  was  not  sure.  She 
was  sure  of  nothing  to-night.  But  she  now  felt  that 
to  follow  the  advice  of  Sir  Mervyn  would  be  the  act 
of  a  moral  coward.  Fernol  had  come  to  England  only 
because  of  her.  He  had  implicitly  trusted  her ;  had  given 
himself  to  her  in  a  peculiar,  a  touching  way.  His  father 
and  mother  had  an  almost  childlike  confidence  in  her,  ad 
miration  for  her.  Could  she  fail  their  boy  in  what  was, 
perhaps,  the  supreme  hour  of  his  fate?  That  would  be 
on  act  of  almost  loathsome  weakness  on  her  part.  Her 
natural  unselfishness  rose  up  again  in  her,  asserted  itself 
almost  violently.  After  all,  did  it  matter  now  what  hap 
pened  to  her?  She  had  still  a  duty  to  carry  out,  at  what 
ever  cost  to  herself.  If  she  deserted  Fernol  now,  because 
of  the  horror  which  had  attacked  her  imagination,  no 
shred  of  self-respect  would  be  left  to  her.  She  knew; 
that  she  would  have  to  condemn  herself  utterly. 

Suddenly  the  battle  was  over.  She  felt  a  slight  sense 
of  relief.  Whatever  Fernol  was,  whatever  he  had  done, 
she  would  recognise  her  responsibility  towards  him,  would 
try  to  fulfil  it  to  the  uttermost. 

"I  don't  matter  any  more,"  she  said  to  herself.  "But 
I  won't  be  afraid.  I  won't  be  afraid.  If  I  am  afraid  I 
am  the  most  contemptible  of  all  creatures." 

Usually  she  went  out  at  about  half -past  seven  to 
have  her  dinner  at  a  small  Italian  restaurant  close  to 
Victoria  Station.  But  to-night  she  had  resolved  not  to 
go.  She  went  into  the  kitchen  of  the  flat,  made  herself 
some  strong  tea  on  the  gas  stove,  drank  it,  and  ate  some 


THE  LOST  FAITH  197 

bread  and  butter.  Then  she  sat  down  to  wait  for  Fer- 
nol.  She  now  felt  quite  certain  that  he  would  come. 

Soon  after  nine  she  heard  the  clang  of  the  door-bell. 
He  had  come.  Again  that  horror  of  the  imagination 
seized  her  and  shook  her.  But  she  strove  to  overcome  it, 
to  summon  up  all  her  courage.  Nevertheless  as  she  got 
up  and  went  down  the  passage  she  was  trembling.  She 
opened  the  door  and  saw  Fernol. 

"So  you're  here!"  he  said. 

His  angry  eyes  searched  her  face.  He  looked  excited, 
hostile.  His  face  was  as  the  face  of  a  stranger. 

"Of  course  I  am  here,"  she  said,  in  a  level  voice. 
"Come  along  in." 

He  frowned  as  he  came  in. 

"Leave  your  coat." 

He  said  nothing  more,  but  quickly  pulled  off  his  coat 
and  threw  it  down  on  the  floor  of  the  hall. 

"Please  pick  up  your  coat  and  hang  it  up  properly," 
she  said. 

He  shot  a  glance  at  her  sideways,  hesitated,  then 
obeyed  her. 

"And  now  come  right  in." 

Her  instinct  was  to  make  him  go  in  front  of  her,  but 
she  did  not  give  way  to  it.  She  walked  on  and  heard 
his  step  close  behind  her.  She  was  glad  when  they  were 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  she  could  face  him  again. 

"Sit  down,  Fernol." 

"No,  thank  you." 

"Anyhow,  I  will." 

And  she  sat  down,  retaining  an  air  of  calm  self- 
possession.  He  stood  on  the  hearthrug  and  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  Then  he  took  his  right  hand  out  and 
fidgetted  with  his  watch-chain.  His  eyes  roved  all  over 
the  room  avoiding  hers. 

"What's  that  ?"  he  exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice. 

"What?    Where?" 

"There!    On  the  table!" 

She  looked  and  saw  the  card  Sir  Mervyn  had  given  her 


198  SNAKE-BITE 

with  the  name  of  the  specialist  in  mental  diseases  written 
upon  it 

"That!  Oh,  it's  only " 

Before  she  could  prevent  it  he  had  gone  to  the  table 
and  picked  up  the  card. 

"Sir  Mervyn  Butler!"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me " 

He  turned  the  card  over  and  read  what  was  written 
on  the  back. 

"What's  this?"  he  demanded,  still  in  a  loud  voice. 
"What's  the  meaning  of  this  doctor's  name?" 

He  came  back  to  the  fire  with  the  card  in  his  hand. 

"What  do  you  want  with  these  cursed  doctors?  Why 
aren't  you  with  Burnington?" 

"Try  to  behave  properly  and  I  will  tell  you." 

"You'd  better!"  he  retorted. 

"Put  that  card  down." 

"Why  should  I?" 

"Because  it's  mine  and  I  tell  you  to  do  so." 

He  dropped  it  on  the  floor. 

"I've  made  a  nice  mistake,"  he  said,  with  intense  bit 
terness.  "I  believed  in  you  and  you're  as  treacherous  as 
all  the  rest  of  them.  What  have  you  done?  Why  aren't 
you  with  Burnington?  What's  Mervyn  Butler  doing 
there?  Why  is  he  there,  I  say?" 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  if  you'll  only  listen  and  be 
quiet." 

"Goon!" 

"Fernol,  did  you  go  to  the  Evening  Dispatch?" 

"Of  course  I  did." 

"How  did  you  know  Sir  Hector  was  ill  ?" 

"Never  mind.    That's  my  business." 

"How  could  you  have  known?" 

"Didn't  he  swear  he  would  send  for  you  ?  Didn't  he  ? 
Or  did  you  tell  me  a  damned  lie?" 

"Hush!    He  did  send  for  me." 

"Then — then  you're  going  back  to-morrow?  You're 
going  to  throw  that  old  humbug  into  the  street?" 


THE  LOST  FAIT.H  199 

"Sir  Mervyn  is  not  a  humbug,  Fernol." 

"He  is.  He  pretends  to  cure  disease  and  he  can't.  He 
takes  money  for  what  he  can't  do.  All  the  doctors  do 
that.  And  you,  who  can  cure,  don't  take  a  farthing. 
And  the  world  howls  against  you  and  sticks  to  the  hum 
bugs.  But  now  they'll  know.  All  London  will  know. 
I'll  take  care  of  that.  But  you  must  back  me  up.  I'll 
bring  it  off.  I'll  work  it  all.  That's  why  I'm  here.  You 
need  a  man  to  run  you,  one  that  knows  the  ropes.  See 
how  I  worked  the  Evening  Dispatch?" 

He  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"That  was  a  surprise  for  the  doctors,  wasn't  it  ?  That 
was  one  from  the  shoulder,  eh  ?  When  are  you  going  back 
to  throw  old  Butler  out?  I'll  go  with  you.  I  want  to 
see  the  fun.  You  owe  that  to  me,  Olivia,  for  if  it  wasn't 
for  me " 

He  stopped  short  and  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and 
a  crafty  look  came  into  his  face. 

"Fernol,  what  have  you  done  ?" 

"Never  mind.    When  are  you  going  back?" 

"I  am  not  going  back." 

"Not " 

He  bent  down  and  stared  into  her  eyes. 

"I'm  not  going  back.    Sir  Hector  is  dangerously  ill." 

"Why  not?  All  the  better  for  you!  Now's  your 
chance  to  show  what  you  can  do." 

"I  am  not  going  back." 

The  boy's  face,  which  had  been  flushed,  went  suddenly 
white. 

"You're  going  to  let  me  down !  After  all  I've  done  for 
you!" 

After  a  moment  of  painful  hesitation  Olivia  said,  in  a 
gentle  voice,  which  sickened  her  as  she  heard  it,  because 
it  sounded  so  false : 

"Dear  Fernol,  if  you  don't  tell  me  what  you  have  done, 
how  can  I  know  what  I  owe  you?  You  leave  me  in  the 
dark.  Is  that  friendship?  How  can  two  friends  work 


200  SNAKE-BITE 

together  when  one  of  them  is  left  in  ignorance  of  what 
the  other  is  doing?  Put  me  wise  and  then " 

"Yes— then?"  he  said  eagerly. 

"Then  I  shall  be  able  to  understand  thoroughly  what 
it  is  my  part  to  do." 

"That's  horse  sense,  Olivia!    Now  you're  talking!" 

Again  one  hand  went  to  his  watch-chain. 

"You  will  do  your  part  if  I  tell  you?" 

"Fernol,  have  I  ever  let  you  down?" 

She  felt  like  a  traitor  to  friendship  as  she  spoke.  But 
the  time  for  sincerity  was  past.  At  all  costs  she  had  to 
know. 

"No,  never.  But,  if  I  tell  you,  will  you  go  back  to 
morrow  ?" 

"I'll  go  to  Cadogan  Square  to-morrow." 

"You  swear  that?" 

"I  promise  you." 

His  face  was  transfigured. 

"Olivia,  old  girl,  I've  done  the  wonderful  thing  I've 
always  wanted  to  do  for  you.  I've  given  you  the  great 
chance  of  your  life." 

"How,  Fernol?" 

"It  was  I  who  made  Sir  Hector  get  ill." 

Somehow — she  never  knew  how — Olivia  forced  her 
self  to  meet  the  triumph  in  his  eyes  with  a  look  of  grati 
tude.  She  even  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  grasped 
it. 

"How  did  you  do  it?" 

"Don't  tell !  .  .  .  I've  got  a  friend  in  Guy's  Hospital. 
I  made  up  to  him  for  you,  though  I  hate  all  the  doctors. 
I  managed  to  get  hold  of  a  culture  of  typhoid  bacillus 
one  day,  when  I  was  with  him  in  the  laboratory.  (He 
was  injecting  typhoid  into  a  rat.)  That  night  I  dined 
with  Sir  Hector  I  put  some  of  it  into  his  wine." 

"Thank  you,  Fernol,"  she  said,  by  a  fierce  effort  con 
cealing  her  horror. 

"I  gave  you  your  chance." 

"Yes,  you  gave  me  my  chance." 


THE  LOST  FAITH  201 

"And  you  won't  let  it  slip?" 

His  eyes  were  on  her;  his  hand  was  always  at  his 
watch-chain,  twisting  it  to  and  fro. 

"You'll  put  that  old  humbug  into  the  street?  You'll 
go  there  to-morrow  and  stay  there  till  you've  cured  Burn- 
ington  ?" 

After  a  moment  of  silence  Olivia  said  slowly : 

"What  if  I  went  to-night?" 

The  boy's  face  shone  with  enthusiasm. 

"That's  the  way!  Tackle  old  Butler  to-night!  But 
you've  never  told  me  how  he  got  in?" 

"Miss  Burnington  went  and  fetched  him." 

"Just  like  her!  But  why  did  you  let  him  go  near  Sir 
Hector  ?  Why  did  you  leave  the  house  and  let  him  stay 
in  it?" 

"I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  Miss  Burnington  insisted." 

"Isn't  Burnington  master  in  that  house?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  he's  ill.  And  that  makes  it  all 
difficult.  I  was  there  all  day." 

"Go  back  now  and  throw  Butler  out.  I've  done  my 
part  as  a  friend.  Go  and  do  yours  now  I've  told  you." 

"Yes,  I'll  go  and  do  mine,"  she  said,  faintly,  in  spite 
of  the  effort  she  made. 

She  got  up. 

"I'll  come  with  you !"  he  cried  excitedly. 

"No;  I  want  you  to  stay  here." 

"Here?    Why?" 

"I'll  just  go  and  get  things  quite  clear,  and  then  I'll 
come  back  and  tell  you.  If  you  come,  there'll  be  trouble 
with  Miss  Burnington.  She  doesn't  like  you.  Nor  does 
Sir  Mervyn." 

"I'll  wring  his  neck  if  I  get  at  him !"  he  said  savagely. 

"Let  me  go  alone.  Promise  me  to  stay  here — promise 
me!" 

"Very  well.    I  don't  so  much  mind  now  you  know." 

His  air  of  triumph  returned. 

"You  know  me  now,  Olivia,"  he  said.  "And  you  know 
whether  I  care  or  not." 


202  SNAKE-BITE 

"Yes,  I  know  now." 

As  she  left  him  to  go  to  her  bedroom,  she  bent  quickly 
and  picked  up  the  card  from  the  floor.  Instantly  a  sus 
picious  look  came  into  his  face. 

"What  do  you  want  with  that?"  he  said,  fiercely. 

"Only  to  throw  it  into  the  fire,"  she  replied. 

As  she  turned  to  the  flames  she  managed  to  read  the 
specialist's  name  and  address.  She  dropped  the  card  into 
the  fire.  Less  than  five  minutes  later  she  was  out  of  the 
flat.  In  the  hall  she  found  the  porter. 

"Mr.  West  is  staying  on  in  the  flat,"  she  said.  "I  have 
to  go  out,  but  I  shall  soon  be  back." 

"Very  well,  Ma'am." 

She  looked  hard  at  the  man.  He  was  an  old  soldier, 
sturdy  and  strong,  with  a  powerful,  unemotional  face, 

"Look  here !"  she  said.  "I  am  going  to  say  something 
to  you  which  I  beg  you  not  to  repeat." 

"Honour  bright,  Ma'am." 

"My  friend,  Mr.  West,  isn't  quite  himself  to-night." 

The  porter  looked  much  more  intelligent. 

"I'm  going  to  fetch  someone  to  see  him.  He's  prom 
ised  to  wait  for  me.  But,  if  I'm  delayed,  he  might  try 
to  go.  If  he  does,  will  you  do  your  very  best  to  detain 
him?" 

"I  will,  Ma'am." 

"Persuade  him— don't  let  him  go." 

"I'll  see  to  it,  Ma'am." 

"I  shan't  forget  you." 

He  smiled  slightly,  and  she  hurried  away.  She  found 
a  cab  and  drove  to  the  specialist's  house.  Luckily  he  was 
at  home.  He  received  her  in  his  consulting  room.  He 
was  a  big,  burly  man,  with  enormous  shoulders,  a  kind, 
strong  face,  and  fearless  and  honest  brown  eyes.  Olivia 
took  a  fancy  to  him  at  once.  As  briefly  as  she  could,  she 
laid  the  case  of  Fernol  before  him,  after  telling  him  that 
Sir  Mervyn  had  given  her  his  address.  She  did  not  tell 
him  Fernol's  terrible  secret.  She  was  resolved,  if  pos 
sible,  to  keep  that  hidden  for  ever.  But  she  told  him 


THE  LOST  FAITH  203 

quickly  the  history  of  the  boy's  accident,  his  condition 
afterwards,  his  apparent  cure  by  her,  his  coming  to 
London,  her  increasing  anxiety  about  his  state  of  health 
while  in  London,  shown  by  his  fanatical  devotion  to  her 
interests,  and  his  fanatical  hatred  of  those  whom  he 
deemed  her  enemies.  When  she  came  to  the  Burningtons 
she  found  her  task  difficult.  But  she  told  as  much  as  she 
dared,  not  sparing  herself. 

"My  poor  friend  longed  for  Sir  Hector  to  fall  ill,  so 
that  I  might  cure  him,"  she  said.  "And  by  an  evil  chance 
he  fell  ill." 

Then  she  described  Fernol's  visits  to  the  house  in 
Cadogan  Square,  his  tipping  of  the  footman,  and  the 
scene  he  had  made  when  he  discovered  Sir  Mervyn's 
presence  in  the  house.  She  also  told  about  the  news 
paper  paragraph. 

"Sir  Mervyn  urged  me  not  to  see  Mr.  West  to-night," 
she  said.  "But  I  did.  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  see  him.  I — 
I  can't  tell  you  quite  all  that  happened,  but  I'm  abso 
lutely  sure  the  poor  boy  is  mad.  I  know  it.  I  have  rea 
son  to  know  it.  I  dare  not  let  him  go.  He  is  quite  alone 
in  London.  To-morrow — even  late  to-night — the  papers 
will  publish  a  statement  from  me  saying  that  I  am  not 
attending  Sir  Hector  and  that  Sir  Mervyn  Butler  is. 
If  Mr.  West  sees  it  I  am  sure  something  terrible  will 
happen.  He  is  not  sane.  He  might  do  anything.  He  is 
waiting  in  my  flat  now.  He  thinks  I  have  gone  to  Sir 
Hector  to  turn  Sir  Mervyn  out.  Think  of  it!  Can 
you  help  me?" 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it !"  said  the  doctor,  after  a  moment 
of  thought.  "I  suppose,"  he  added,  "you  have  told  me 
everything  of  importance  bearing  on  your  friend's  mental 
condition  ?" 

As  he  said  this  the  honest  brown  eyes  looked  remark 
ably  penetrating. 

"I  have  told  you  all  I  can  tell,"  she  answered.  "He 
is  fanatical  about  me,  because,  poor  boy,  he  thinks  I 
have  cured  him.  It's — it's  very  tragic  for  me." 


W4i  SNAKE-BITE 

"Yes ;  I  can  understand  that.  Well,  the  first  thing  to 
be  done  is  for  me  to  see  him.  I'll  go  at  once.  If,  when 
I  have  seen  him,  I  find  clear  indications  of  mental  trou 
ble,  I  can  arrange  for  him  to  be  under  proper  supervi 


sion." 


"You  won't  ...  I  couldn't  bear  for  him  to  be  put  in 
a  madhouse,"  said  Olivia.  "His  father  is  a  millionaire. 
I  can  cable  to  him.  I'm  sure  he  will  come  over." 

"I  have  a  home  of  my  own  at  Hampstead  for  mental 
cases.  I  could  take  him  there  and  watch  him." 

"Yes — yes.  Oh,  that  would  be  the  best  thing  possible 
for  him." 

"But  I  must  tell  you  that,  if  I  don't  satisfy  myself  that 
his  mind  is  astray,  I  can  do  nothing." 

"I'm  sure  you  will  see  that  I  am  right  about  him." 

"Very  well." 

The  doctor  got  up. 

"One  moment!  I  must  go  to  the  telephone,"  he 
said. 

He  left  the  room  and  was  away  for  nearly  ten  min 
utes.  When  he  came  back  he  had  an  overcoat  on  and 
his  hat  and  gloves  in  his  hand. 

"Shall  we  go?"  he  said. 

"I'm  ready.    You  wish  me" to  take  you  into  the  flat?" 

"I  wish  you  to  drive  me  there.  On  the  way  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  propose  to  do." 

They  went  out  and  got  into  the  waiting  taxicab. 

When  they  arrived  at  Buckingham  Palace  Mansions, 
a  big  motor-car  was  standing  before  the  entrance. 

"Now,"  said  the  doctor,  "you'll  remain  in  the  cab  as 
I  suggested.  Have  you  your  key?" 

"Yes.    Here  it  is." 

She  gave  it  to  him.  He  got  out,  walked  to  the  motor 
and  stood  by  it  for  a  moment,  evidently  speaking  to 
someone  inside.  Then  the  door  of  it  was  opened,  and 
a  short,  strongly  built  man  emerged  and  joined  the  doc 
tor  on  the  pavement.  After  a  short  colloquy  the  doctor 
returned  to  Olivia. 


THE  LOST  FAITH  205 

"I'm  going  to  tell  your  man  to  go  a  little  further  on," 
he  said.  "It  may  be  better,  in  certain  eventualities,  for 
you  not  to  be  just  here,  in  front  of  the  entrance.  I  may 
be  some  time.  Try  not  to  be  anxious.  I  will  return  to 
you  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"I'll  wait,"  said  Olivia.  "But  hadn't  I  better  just 
speak  to  the  porter?" 

"To  be  sure.    I'll  find  him." 

He  went  into  the  building  and  came  out  almost  imme 
diately  with  the  porter. 

"Is  Mr.  West  still  here?"  asked  Olivia. 

"Yes,  Ma'am." 

"He  hasn't  tried  to  leave?" 

"I  haven't  seen  him,  Ma'am.  I've  been  here  all  the 
time.  He  must  be  still  upstairs." 

"Then  please  take  this  gentleman  up." 

"Yes,  Ma'am." 

The  doctor  spoke  to  the  taxi-driver.  As  he  turned  to 
go  into  the  house,  followed  by  the  porter  and  the  man 
who  had  got  out  of  the  motor,  Olivia's  cabman  drove  on 
for,  perhaps,  a  hundred  yards,  and  then  stopped.  Olivia 
looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  half-past  ten.  She  sat  back 
in  the  cab  and  waited.  For  a  few  minutes  she  sat  per 
fectly  still,  and  then  abruptly  something  within  her,  some 
barrier,  seemed  to  break,  and  she  was  shaken  by  a  passion 
of  tears.  She  had  controlled  herself  for  too  long,  and 
now  Nature  took  revenge  upon  her.  The  effort  she  had 
made  when  she  took  Fernol's  hand  after  his  hideous 
revelation,  the  hand  of  one  who  would  perhaps  prove  to 
be  the  murderer  of  the  man  whom  she  loved,  was  the 
cause  of  this  sudden  and  tremendous  reaction!  She  felt 
now  a  sort  of  rage  against  Fernol.  She  hated  him  as 
she  wept.  Her  pity  for  him  was  swept  away.  What 
ever  his  fate  he  deserved  it.  Let  him  pay  for  what  he 
had  done;  pay  to  the  uttermost  farthing!  He  had  at 
tacked  the  man  whom  she  loved.  And  Sir  Hector  would 
die.  All  hope  of  his  conquering  the  disease  which  was 
beginning  to  ravage  him  failed  in  Olivia  at  that  moment. 


206  SNAKE-BITE 

She  saw  nothing  but  blackness.  She  was  drowned  in 
blackness;  submerged  with  the  Furies.  Her  body  trem 
bled  from  head  to  foot.  She  clenched  her  hands.  And 
she  hated  with  her  whole  soul;  hated  the  boy  who  had 
done  this  deed  for  her  sake. 

"Let  him  pay!"  her  brain  kept  crying  out.  "Let  him 
pay!" 

The  cabman  stirred  on  his  seat  Presently  he  half 
turned.  Then  he  slowly  got  down.  The  window  of  the 
cab  was  drawn  up.  He  approached  it.  Then  he  laid  his 
hand  on  the  door.  Olivia  saw  him  and  instinctively 
shrank  into  the  corner  farthest  from  the  door.  The  man 
turned  the  handle  and  looked  in. 

"Did  you  call  out,  lady?"  he  said.  "Did  you  want 
somethin'  ?" 

Olivia  managed  to  say  "No." 

The  man  muttered  some  words,  and  shut  the  door. 
Then  he  lit  a  pipe  and  walked  up  and  down  on  the  pave 
ment.  His  interruption,  the  sight  of  his  homely  and 
moving  figure,  recalled  Olivia  to  a  cold  sense  of  the 
present  realities.  She  heard  a  clock  strike  eleven.  The 
tears  still  streamed  over  her  face,  but  now  she  began 
to  wipe  them  away;  and  presently  she  was  able  to  stop 
crying.  But  she  kept  on  shivering  like  a  child  and  her 
teeth  chattered  convulsively. 

Half  an  hour  passed.  A  sort  of  numb  calm  enfolded 
her.  She  felt  frigid,  detached  and  hard.  The  cabman 
reopened  the  door. 

"How  long  are  you  goin'  to  be,  lady?"  he  said,  in 
a  hoarse  voice. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Because  I  don't  want  to  be  out  all  night.  We  aren't 
made  of  brick  nor  of  stone  neither,  whatever  some  people 

think.  There's  some "  he  broke  off,  and  stared  down 

the  road  in  the  direction  of  the  Mansions. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Olivia. 

"There's  someone  comin'  out,  lady.  I'm  sure  I  do 
'ope  it's  them,  that  I  do." 


THE  LOST  FAITH  807 

He  still  stared  into  the  night. 

"There's  that  car "  he  paused.  "I  do  b'lieve  it's 

the  gentleman  comin'  at  last.  Yes,  it  is!" 

A  couple  of  minutes  later  Dr.  Soames  appeared  at  the 
window.  He  looked  very  grave.  His  face  was  slightly 
flushed  and  there  was  a  glint  of  something  like  excite 
ment,  or  unusual  energy,  in  his  eyes.  His  coat  was 
buttoned  up  to  the  chin,  and  the  collar  was  turned  up  to 
his  ears. 

"You  can  drive  back  to  the  Mansions,"  he  said  to  the 
driver. 

Then  he  opened  the  door. 

"Shall  we  walk  there?"  he  said  to  Olivia.  "It's  only 
a  step." 

"I'll  get  out,"  she  said. 

When  she  was  out  the  driver  turned  the  taxicab  and 
drove  off. 

They  followed  on  foot. 

"He's  gone,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Gone!    Where?" 

"I  had  two  men  there  with  the  car.  He'll  be  all  right 
with  them,  poor  fellow.  They've  taken  him  away." 

"Then ?" 

"You  were  quite  right.    He's  not  fit  to  be  at  large." 

"Was  he  violent?"  she  asked,  without  interest. 

"Yes,  at  the  end.  But  I  know  how  to  deal  with  such 
cases.  He's  being  taken  to  the  home  I  told  you  of  at 
Hampstead.  He'll  have  every  care." 

"Oh!" 

"You  mustn't  see  him  for  some  time." 

His  tone  was  decisive.  They  were  now  in  front  of 
the  Mansions. 

"Will  you  come  in  ?"  she  said,  indifferently. 

"I'll  come  in  for  five  minutes.  Then  I  should  advise 
you  to  get  to  bed." 

"I  shan't  sleep." 

"Yes,  you  will.  I'll  take  care  of  that.  Til  only  be  a 
minute,"  he  added  to  the  taxi-driver. 


208  SNAKE-BITE 

The  man  began  to  grumble,  but  the  doctor  silenced  him 
with  some  money. 

When  they  were  upstairs  Olivia  led  the  way  mechan 
ically  to  the  drawing-room.  But  she  paused  at  the  door. 
The  room  was  in  great  disorder.  An  armchair  was  over 
turned,  a  small  table  had  been  broken,  and  the  books 
which  had  been  on  it  were  strewn  about  the  floor. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  said. 

She  turned  to  the  doctor.    "What  did  he  do?" 

"Never  mind." 

Quietly  and  swiftly  he  put  the  room  to  rights. 

"Now  sit  down." 

She  obeyed. 

"Won't  you  take  off  your  coat?"  she  said. 

"No,  thank  you." 

She  noticed  that  he  still  kept  the  collar  up.  He  saw 
her  eyes  on  it,  and  said  very  simply, 

"I'm  not  quite  presentable." 

"He  attacked  you?" 

She  spoke  without  any  real  interest,  mechanically. 

"He  isn't  himself.  But  we'll  get  him  better  in  time,  no 
doubt.  I  should  cable  to  his  father  to-morrow." 

"Very  well." 

"You  didn't  tell  me  that  he  suffers  from  hallucina 
tions,"  said  the  doctor,  looking  her  straight  in  the  face. 

"I  didn't  know  it." 

"Well,  he  does,"  said  the  doctor  firmly.  "He  thought 
I  was  Mervyn  Butler." 

She  was  silent. 

"No  doubt  he  hasn't  shown  that  side  of  his  malady  to 
you.  He  has  also  acute  ego-mania.  He  imagines  that 
he's  done  something  very  great,  very  wonderful.  He 
has  no  conception  whatever  of  right  and  wrong.  He's 
in  the  condition  when  he  might  commit  a  crime  and 
boast  of  it  to  anybody." 

"It's  just  as  well  I  fetched  you,"  she  said. 

"Yes.  Now  we  won't  talk  any  more  to-night.  I'll 
see  you  some  time  to-morrow.  By  the  way,  the  reason 


THE  LOST  FAITH  209 

you  mustn't  see  him  is  a  painful  one,  but  I'd  better  tell 
you  it.  He  has  conceived  a  violent  hatred  for  you." 

"Has  he?" 

"Yes.  He  realises  that  you  fetched  me,  a  doctor,  to 
him.  That  has  turned  him  against  you.  He  thinks  you 
his  greatest  enemy." 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  she  said,  coldly. 

The  doctor  glanced  at  her,  then  took  a  small  box  from 
his  overcoat  pocket. 

"Can  you  get  me  a  glass  of  water?" 

"Why?" 

"I'm  going  to  give  you  a  couple  of  these  and  see  you 
take  them  before  I  go.  You've  got  to  have  a  night's 
sleep." 

She  got  up  heavily,  went  out  and  came  back  with  a 
glass  of  water. 

When  she  had  taken  the  pills  he  grasped  her  hand. 

"Go  straight  to  bed.    You  promise  me?" 

"Yes,  I  promise.    But  I  know  I  shan't  sleep." 

He  smiled. 

"And  I  know  you  will.    Good  night." 

He  shook  her  hand  and  went  to  the  door. 

"Give  a  kind  thought  to  the  doctors,"  he  said,  and 
went  out. 

"Does  he  know  ?"  Olivia  thought  vaguely.  "Has  Fer- 
nol  told  him?  Does  he  know?" 

Then  she  obeyed  his  direction,  went  to  her  room,  un 
dressed,  and  got  into  bed. 

She  felt  tremendously  tired,  even  exhausted.  Her 
brain  became  dull  and  sluggish.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
her  body  was  heavy  like  a  mass  of  lead. 

"If  only  I  could  sleep!"  she  thought.  "But  I  know 
I  shan't." 

That  was  her  last  thought  before  she  slept.  .  .  . 

A  month  had  passed,  and  Olivia  was  still  in  London 
living  in  the  little  flat  which  had  seen  Fernol's  tragedy. 
Her  life,  which  had  been  so  active,  so  full  of  that  putting 
forth  by  which,  as  she  had  once  said  to  Fernol,  she  drew 


£10  SNAKE-BITE 

in  strength,  had  become  lonely  and  monotonous.  She 
saw  very  few  people,  went  out  very  seldom.  Her  name, 
once  the  subject  of  discussion  and  of  polemics  in  the 
Press,  was  now  never  mentioned  in  print,  and  seldom  in 
any  conversation.  There  had  been  a  brief  outburst  when 
her  statement  had  appeared  in  the  papers  denying  that 
she  was  in  attendance  by  the  bedside  of  Sir  Hector,  but 
it  had  soon  died  down.  Lord  Sandring  was  bitterly  dis 
appointed  in  her.  Her  defection  had  given  the  final 
blow  to  his  ambitions.  After  a  painful  interview,  in 
which  he  had  brought  all  his  vitality  to  bear  in  an  effort 
to  persuade  her  to  reconsider  the  decision  so  almost  bru 
tally  put  forth  in  her  letter  to  him,  he  had  acknowledged 
himself  beaten  by  closing  his  Bureau  of  Psychic  Healing. 
He  had  played  his  trump  card,  and  fate  had  out-trumped 
him.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  The  most  re 
markable  woman  in  America  had  laid  him  out.  He  re 
tired  to  his  estates,  and  began  to  breed  Herefordshire 
cattle  and  to  go  in  for  Miiller's  exercises.  Why  Miss 
Traill — she  was  no  longer  Olivia  to  him — remained  in 
England  he  could  not  imagine,  unless  it  were  on  account 
of  that  poor  chap,  Fernol  West,  who  was  still  in  the 
doctors'  hands,  and  who,  of  course,  in  such  a  situation 
must  not  be  expected  to  get  better. 

But  it  was  not  on  FernoFs  account  that  Olivia  stayed 
on,  laughed  at  and  despised  when  she  was  remembered, 
a  practically  self-confessed  failure.  She  could  do  noth 
ing  more  for  Fernol.  She  dared  not  even  go  to  see 
him.  His  mother  and  father  had  arrived  from  New 
York,  and  therefore  her  responsibility  was  ended.  And 
Fernol's  maniacal  hatred  for  her  persisted.  It  was  a 
fixed  idea  with  him  that  she  was  his  enemy  and  had  de 
liberately  ruined  his  life  by  giving  him  into  the  hands  of 
the  doctors.  He  had  fought  the  doctors  for  her,  and  this 
was  her  reward  to  him. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  West,  in  their  misery,  had  shown  the 
greatest  delicacy,  the  greatest  kindness  to  Olivia.  They 
knew  that  she  had  done  her  very  best  for  their  son,  and 


THE  LOST  FAITtf 

they  were  still  generous  in  their  gratitude.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  not  possible  for  them  to  feel  towards  her  as  they 
had  formerly  felt.  They  had  regarded  her  as  the  saviour 
of  their  adored  son.  Now  they  could  only  look  upon 
her  as  a  well-meaning  and  warm-hearted  woman  who 
had  done  her  utmost,  and  who  had  failed  in  her  en 
deavour.  She  felt  pity  concealed  in  their  gentle  courtesy 
to  her,  and  she  could  scarcely  bear  to  be  with  them.  The 
look  in  their  eyes  reminded  her  of  the  belief  in  herself 
which  was  gone  for  ever;  the  pressure  of  their  hands 
intensified  her  regret  for  the  faith  which  was  lost. 

And  Fernol,  their  son,  hated  her.  She  had  become 
part  of  his  madness. 

She  stayed  on  in  London  because  of  Sir  Hector. 

He  was  still  dangerously  ill  with  typhoid  fever,  hov 
ering  between  life  and  death.  She  could  not  leave  Eng 
land  till  she  knew  whether  he  would  live  or  die.  She 
never  went  to  the  house  in  Cadogan  Square.  Although 
Miss  Burnington  and  Sir  Mervyn  Butler  had  never  said 
a  word  on  the  matter,  she  knew  that,  after  the  state 
ment  which  had  appeared  in  the  Evening  Dispatch,  any 
visit  from  her  might  revive  the  rumour  that  she  had 
gone  there  as  a  faith  healer,  anxious  to  interfere  with 
the  doctors,  or  summoned  as  a  last  hope  because  they 
could  do  nothing  more. 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  complete  self-sacrifice. 
And  she  was  not  a  woman  who  believed  in  half  meas 
ures.  But  she  was  kept  informed  of  the  state  of  the  man 
whom  she  loved  by  Sir  Mervyn  Butler.  The  almost 
impossible  had  come  about;  her  former  antagonist  and 
she  were  now  staunch  friends.  Sir  Mervyn  had  rec 
ognised  the  stark  sincerity  of  the  woman  whom  he  had 
despised  and  done  his  best  to  ruin  when  she  first  came 
to  London,  and  he  had  told  her  so  in  words  which  had 
kindled  in  her  generous  nature  a  warm  response. 
Strangely,  she  now  looked  upon  him  as  perhaps  her  best 
friend  in  England.  Sir  Hector  was  too  ill  to  be  the 
friend  or  the  enemy  of  anyone.  And  Miss  Burnington, 


SNAKE-BITE 

who  had  called  on  Olivia  more  than  once,  and  tried  to 
show  her  the  greatest  kindness,  was  obviously  never  quite 
at  ease  when  with  her.  Between  the  two  women  lay 
dividing  memories,  and  also  the  knowledge  of  a  shared 
secret,  which  had  never  been  spoken  of  by  them,  and  so 
set  them  apart  from  each  other. 

The  fifth  week  of  the  illness  was  nearly  over  when 
one  evening  Sir  Mervyn  Butler  called  on  Olivia,  just: 
before  she  was  about  to  leave  the  house  for  the  Italian 
restaurant  where  she  dined  modestly  alone  every  day. 
He  came  in  with  his  usual  rather  ponderous  dignity,  but 
there  was  an  unusually  kind  look  in  his  eyes. 

"He's  better!"  he  said,  immediately,  without  even 
greeting  her.  "The  crisis  is  past." 

"You  think — will  he  recover?" 

"I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't  now.  But,  of  course,  it 
will  be  a  long  business,  and  I  don't  know  whether  he 
will  ever  be  the  man  he  was.  In  fact,  at  his  age  I  doubt 
it." 

Olivia  said  nothing.  At  that  moment  she  did  not  dare 
to  speak.  She  was  rejoicing,  and  yet  she  felt  stricken. 
For  if  that  man  had  no  great  future,  what  would  his  life 
be  worth  to  him? 

"I  have  two  things  I  must  tell  you,"  continued  Sir 
Mervyn,  knitting  his  brows  and  looking  straight  before 
him.  "Another  man  has  got  the  Viceroyalty  of  India." 

"Oh!"  said  Olivia. 

It  was  a  little  cry,  and  all  the  pity  of  woman  was  in 
it 

"My  dear,  he  couldn't  be  fit  for  such  a  post  for  a 
long  time,  if  ever.  I  should  be  against  his  returning  to 
a  strenuous  life  in  the  East." 

"But  his  great  ambition  wrecked!  Oh,  what  will  he 
do  when  he  knows?" 

"He's  a  strong  character.  He'll  take  the  blow;  stand 
ing." 

She  was  silent,  trying  to  control  her  emotion. 


THE  LOST  FAITJK 

"The  other  thing  I  must  tell  you  is  this.  He  has  asked 
for  you." 

"For  me !"  she  said.    "Oh,  no !" 

"He  wants  you." 

"He  doesn't  know !    He  doesn't  know !" 

"Doesn't  know  what?    I  don't  understand  you." 

"How  can  I — after  all  that  has  happened — Miss  Burn- 
ington  would  be  afraid  to  have  me  in  the  house." 

"I  consider  it  necessary  for  you  to  go  there.  His 
mind  must  not  be  troubled.  He  is  insistent  to  see  you," 

"But  is  he  quite  himself?" 

"Yes.  He's  terribly  weak,  of  course,  like  a  child  al 
most.  But  his  mind  is  quite  clear.  Surely  you  won't 
refuse  to  go  to  him?" 

He  was  beginning  to  look  surprised. 

"I  thought  you  had  a  strong  regard  for  him." 

"I  have." 

"Then  what  holds  you  back?  Miss  Burnington  per 
haps  ?  But  she  wishes  you  to  come." 

"She  asked  you  to  tell  me?" 

"No.  I  should  have  done  that  in  any  case.  My  duty 
is  towards  my  patient.  But,  of  course,  I  spoke  to  her 
about  it." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  said,  'Beg  Miss  Traill  to  come.  Tell  her  from 
me  that  I  hope  she  will  let  bygones  be  bygones.'  I  don't 
think  it  would  be  like  you  to " 

"Oh,  no,  no!    It  isn't  that !" 

Her  intense  agitation  was  obvious.  She  seemed  to  be 
torn  by  some  interior  conflict. 

"What  will  you  do?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  go.  If  he  wants  me  I  must  go.  But  to-morrow — 
I  can't  go  to-night.  Don't  ask  me  to — please." 

"Very  well.  But  I  have  your  promise  for  to-mor 
row?" 

"Yes,  yes.    But  if  the  newspapers " 

"They  won't,  I  dare  say.  But  even  if  they  do,  it 
doesn't  much  matter  now." 


SNAKE-BITE 

"No;  it  doesn't  much  matter  now/1  she  said. 

"She  loves  him!"  Sir  Mervyn  said  to  himself  as  he 
descended  the  stairs.  "What  an  old  fool  I  have  been  not 
to  see  it  before." 

And  during  his  drive  back  to  Cadogan  Square  he  pon 
dered  over  women,  and  came  to  the  remarkable  con 
clusion  that  possibly  Miss  Burnington  had  known  for 
some  time  what  had  just  come  within  the  grasp  of  his 
admirable  intelligence. 

"Women  are  quick,"  he  said  to  himself.  "They're  very 
unreasonable,  but  they're  damned  quick." 

He  knew  something  about  them  after  all! 

Three  weeks  later  Sir  Hector  was  treading  slowly  and 
,feebly  on  the  road  to  recovery.  His  natural  strength 
was  beginning  at  last  to  assert  itself,  and  though  he 
was  still  very  weak  he  was  gaining  every  day.  Olivia  was 
often  at  the  house,  sitting  by  him,  talking  to  him,  reading 
aloud  to  him,  generally  books  of  travel  or  memoirs  of 
military  men.  One  day  he  asked  for  Omar  Khayyam,  and 
she  read  to  him  for  an  hour. 

When  she  had  just  read  the  lines : 

"One  moment  in  annihilation's  waste, 

One  moment,  of  the  well  of  Life  to  taste — 

The  stars  are  setting,  and  the  Caravan 

Draws  to  the  Dawn  of  Nothing — oh  make  haste!" 

he  stopped  her. 

"That's  enough,"  he  said,  in  the  voice  that  was  grow 
ing  stronger  every  day. 

Olivia  shut  up  the  book. 

"The  old  chap  thought  pretty  much  what  I've  been 
thinking — when  I  could  think  at  all — as  I  lay  here,"  he 
said.  "One  moment  of  the  well  of  Life  to  taste.  It 
isn't  very  much,  is  it?" 

"No,"  she  said. 

"I've  sometimes  wondered  whether  I've  made  the  most 
of  the  part  of  the  moment  I've  had  till  now." 

"I'm  sure  you  have,"  she  said,  wondering. 


THE  LOST  FAITH  215 

"I'm  not." 

"But  think  of  the  work  you've  done !" 

"Work  isn't  everything  after  all.    What  about  yours?" 

"Mine  is  over,"  she  said. 

She  and  he  had  never  yet  spoken  of  her  abdication. 
He  had  never  alluded  to  it  in  any  way  since  they  had 
met  again. 

"I  heard  that,"  he  said.  "And  I  reckon  mine  is  over 
too." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said  earnestly. 

"Perhaps  you  think  I  don't  know  about  the  Vice- 
royalty?" 

"I — I — I  had  no  idea.    Your  sister  thinks " 

"I  don't !  Yes,  and  so  does  the  doctor.  They've  kept 
the  newspapers  from  me." 

He  smiled  grimly. 

"No  doubt  they  meant  to  ...  what  is  called  'break  it 
to  me'  when  I  got  better.  But  Sidney  told  me  over  a 
week  ago." 

She  felt  shaken  with  pity  for  him. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.     "I'm  sorry." 

There  was  nothing  else  she  could  say  just  then. 

"It's  all  right  I  shouldn't  be  fit  for  the  job  now," 
he  said,  calmly. 

She  was  silent. 

"I've  always  lived  to  do  jobs,"  he  went  on,  without  any 
emotion.  "Perhaps  I've  made  a  mistake.  How  old  are 
you?" 

"Nearly  twenty-nine,"  she  answered. 

"And  I'm  hard  on  the  way  to  sixty.  Do  you  think  of 
me  as  an  old  man?" 

"No!"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  gust  of  passion. 

He  looked  at  her  hard  from  his  pillow. 

"Could  you  bring  yourself  to  marry  me?"  he  asked. 

All  the  blood  in  her  body — so  it  seemed  to  Olivia — 
rushed  to  her  face,  then  retreated  from  it. 

"I !"  she  said.  "You — you  don't  know  what  you  owe 
to  me." 


216  SNAKE-BITE 

"Yes,  I  da" 

"You  don't !  You  don't !  I  never  meant  to  tell  you  or 
anyone.  But  now  I  must.  It  is  owing  to  me  that  you 
will  never  be  Viceroy  of  India." 

"How  do  you  figure  that  out?"  he  asked,  with  a  look 
of  keen  astonishment. 

Then,  in  plain,  simple  words  she  told  him  all  about 
Fernol. 

"Poor  boy!"  she  said.  "He  did  it  for  me,  because 
he  thought  I  had  healed  him.  I  have  been  wicked  enough 
to  hate  him  for  doing  it.  But  he  thought  he  was  work 
ing  for  me." 

Sir  Hector  lay  for  a  while  in  silence.    Then  he  said : 

"Does  anyone  else  know?" 

"I  don't  think  so;  unless  in  his  madness  he  told  the 
doctor.  And  the  doctor  would  probably  not  believe  it." 

"Wasn't  West  mad  when  he  told  you?" 

"I  know  it  is  true.     I  know  he  did  it." 

Sir  Hector  stretched  out  his  thin  hand. 

"You've  done  the  right  thing  by  me,"  he  said,  "but 
you're  a  woman  of  courage.  I  knew  that  directly  I 
clapped  eyes  on  you.  When  I  get  well  shall  you  and  I 
keep  West's  secret  together?" 


Fernol  West  has  been  taken  back  to  New  York  by 
his  parents.  A  great  surgeon  out  there,  who  has  re 
cently  examined  him,  thinks  it  possible  that  a  certain 
operation  on  the  brain  may  eventually  cure  him.  That 
lies  in  the  future. 

Sir  Hector  Burnington  and  Olivia  were  married  not 
long  ago. 

To  the  great  astonishment  of  Lord  Sandring  and  of 
London,  Sir  Mervyn  Butler  gave  her  away. 


THREE:  THE  HINDU 

I  HAVE  a  friend  whom  I  will  call  Sir  William  Turnbull, 
although  that  isn't  his  name.  He  is  a  famous  specialist 
in  nervous  diseases,  lives  in  Cavendish  Square,  London, 
and  leads,  I  should  think,  a  very  interesting,  though  cer 
tainly  an  arduous,  life.  He  is  a  white-haired  man,  with 
a  long  white  moustache,  a  rather  beaky  nose,  blue  eyes, 
and  an  inexpressive  face.  His  voice  is  quiet;  his  man 
ner  is  always  tranquil,  seldom  animated  and  scarcely  ever 
vivid.  In  general  conversation  he  says  but  little.  But 
when  I  am  alone  with  him  at  night,  as  I  am  perhaps  once 
a  month,  he  tells  me  interesting  and  sometimes  fascinat 
ing  stories  of  the  people  who  consult  him.  Of  course, 
he  never  reveals  their  real  names.  I  have  noted  down 
some  of  these  "cases"  in  a  book.  Two  or  three  days  ago 
I  was  looking  over  it  and  came  upon  a  strange  narrative. 
It  concerns  a  newspaper  proprietor,  and  I  call  it  'The 
Hindu." 

"John  Latimer  came  to  consult  me  about  a  year  ago" 
(said  the  doctor,  in  his  quiet,  rather  colourless  voice). 
"He  owns  several  big  papers,  and  is  an  extremely  suc 
cessful  man.  In  person  he  is  a  large,  rather  burly,  in 
dividual,  just  over  forty,  with  brown  eyes,  short  brown 
hair,  a  firm  mouth  and  chin,  and  a  straightforward  but 
unaffected  manner.  But  when  I  first  saw  him  he  looked 
very  ill.  He  had  a  furtive  demeanour  which  was  at  odds 
with  his  dominating  appearance;  his  large  hands  were 
terribly  restless,  and  by  various  other  signs  I  was  able  to 
judge  of  his  condition.  It  was  very  bad. 

217 


218  SNAKE-BITE 

When  we  had  had  a  little  talk  I  realised  that  behind 
Larimer's  nervous  state  there  was  some  prompting  trag 
edy,  some  haunting  fear  or  misery,  and  that  until  I  could 
find  out  what  it  was  I  could  do  very  little  for  him.  I 
told  him  this. 

"But  it  will  take  a  long  time,"  he  said.  "If  I'm  to  go 
thoroughly  into  it " 

"Nothing  else  would  be  of  much  use,"  I  interrupted. 
"But  I  can  only  give  you  half  an  hour  this  morning. 
Could  you  come  again" — I  consulted  my  engagement 
book — "say,  on  Thursday  afternoon?" 

"What!"  said  he,  with  a  deplorable  accent.  "Three 
days  ahead?" 

"That  seems  to  be  my  first  free  hour,"  I  replied. 

"Oh,  but "  Latimer  paused.  Then  he  thrust  for 
ward  his  powerful  head  and  exclaimed: 

"I  don't  want  to  wait  so  long.  Will  you  waive  eti 
quette  and  dine  with  me  at  my  house,  say,  to-night  ?" 

"That's  very  good  of  you." 

"Good!" 

His  lips  twisted,  and  his  big  hands  shifted  on  his 
knees.  He  clasped  them  tightly  together. 

"Good!"  said  he.  "Why,  doctor,  I'm  hanging  on  to 
you  as  my  only  hope.  I've  heard  that  you  succeed  where 
everyone  else  fails.  Can  you  come  and  will  you  ?" 

I  said  I  would,  and  I  went. 

The  Latimers  live — let  us  say — at  4A,  Portman  Square. 
I  was  there  by  half -past  eight  the  same  evening,  and 
found  Latimer  waiting  for  me  in  a  very  eccentric  draw 
ing-room,  which,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  was  a  replica 
with  slight  variations  of  an  interior  Mrs.  Latimer  had 
seen  when  witnessing  the  Russian  ballet.  She  came  in 
almost  directly,  one  of  the  thinnest  women  I  had  ever 
set  eyes  on,  perhaps  thirty-eight,  tall,  good-looking  in  a 
wasted  sort  of  way,  with  brown  hair  which  framed  a 
low  forehead,  white  cheeks,  and  pale  observant  eyes.  She 
wore  jade  ear-rings  in  her  rather  large  white  ears  and 
jade  bracelets  on  her  sticks  of  arms.  She  greeted  me 


THE  HINDU  219 

quickly  in  a  voice  which  sounded  thoroughly  over 
worked.  Almost  immediately  we  went  down  to  dinner. 

The  dinner  was  quite  super-excellent.  During  it  Mrs. 
Latimer  talked  with  a  sort  of  anxious  pertinacity.  Lati- 
mer  said  little.  I  did  my  best,  which  is  pretty  bad  as  you 
know.  When  dinner  was  over  Mrs.  Latimer  got  up 
and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good  night,"  she  said,  in  her  tired  voice.  "I  am  go 
ing  to  bed." 

"To  sleep?"  I  asked. 

"No,  to  read.  I'm  not  much  of  a  sleeper.  Good  night, 
Johnny." 

Her  pale  eyes  travelled  quickly  over  her  husband's 
face  and  figure.  Then  she  turned  and  went  out  of  the 
room,  her  long  ear-rings  swinging  gently  beneath  her 
white  ears,  one  thin  hand  holding  the  jade  bracelet  on 
her  left  arm. 

"Will  you  smoke,  doctor  ?"  asked  Latimer. 

"No,  thank  you,  I  never  smoke,"  said  I. 

"And  you  don't  take  coffee.  Nor  do  I — now.  Then 
let  us  go  to  my  room  where  we  shan't  be  interrupted." 

"With  pleasure." 

Latimer  led  the  way  to  a  large  library  on  the  ground 
floor  behind  the  dining-room.  There  were  no  Russian 
ballet  touches  in  it.  All  was  plain,  comfortable,  and 
practical.  Books  were  ranged  round  the  walls.  Deep 
armchairs  were  set  near  the  fire.  Dark  green  curtains 
hid  the  windows.  A  telephone  was  handy  on  a  big  flat 
writing  table.  And  the  silence  in  this  sanctum  seemed 
of  a  special  brand,  heavier,  deeper  than  the  silence  of  the 
dining-room. 

Latimer  shut  the  door. 

"No  one  will  disturb  us  here,"  he  said.  "Do  sit  down 
by  the  fire." 

"Thank  you,"  said  I.  "Now  you  can  be  as  long  as 
you  like.  You'd  better  tell  me  everything  as  far  as  you 
can  remember,  until  I  interrupt  you." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  I  have  an  excellent  memory." 


220  SNAKE-BITE 

"Good." 

I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  calmly,  laid  one  hand  over 
the  other,  and  gazed  into  the  fire.  I  took  care  not  to 
look  at  all  observant  Latimer  was  glad  of  that. 

"I'll  smoke  my  pipe,  if  you'll  allow  me,"  he  said,  and 
he  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe  with  deliberation.  Then  he 
sat  down  rather  heavily,  and  began  to  speak  in  his  steady 
baritone  voice. 

"As  you  know,  doctor,  I'm  a  newspaper  proprietor, 
and  control  The  Daily  Echo,  The  Week,  The  Evening 
Journal,  and  The  Sunday  News.  Lately  my  control  has 
really  been  nominal.  I've  been  travelling.  I  have  no 
children.  My  papers  bring  me  in  a  great  deal  of  money. 
I'm  a  very  successful  man." 

He  sighed  deeply,  puckered  his  brows,  and  let  his  firm 
chin  drop  for  a  moment,  as  he  looked  down  on  the 
floor. 

"My  wife  is  clever  and  artistic,  and,  like  many  clever 
women,  imaginative  and  apt  to  be  carried  away  by 
whims.  I,  on  the  other  hand,  have  always  been  looked 
upon  as  a  hard-headed,  practical  man,  good  at  organisa 
tion,  the  last  sort  of  type,  I  suppose,  likely  to  be  the 
prey  of  the  imagination.  In  fact,  many  of  my  friends 
say  I  haven't  got  one." 

He  smiled  bitterly. 

"If  I  had,  some  of  them  have  said — I  should  be  a 
bigger  man  than  I  am.  I  tell  you  this  lest  you  should 
presently  be  inclined  to  fancy  that  my  appearance  belies 

me.  For  I  know  I  look  stolid  enough.  Well,  now " 

He  drew  his  armchair  a  little  nearer  to  mine.  "It  be 
gan  in  this  way.  Do  you  remember,  about  fifteen  months 
ago,  there  was  a  great  pother  about  psychical  research?" 

"Do  you  mean  when  Professor  Elton  launched  a  vio 
lent  attack  in  one  of  the  papers?" 

"In  my  paper,  The  Dally  Echo" 

"Was  it?  On  one  of  the  principal  investigators  for 
the  Psychical  Research  Society?" 

"Yes.    Till  then  I  hadn't  bothered  myself  about  such 


THE  HINDU 

matters.  I  hadn't  had  time.  But  the  row  attracted  my 
attention,  and  the  multitude  of  letters  which  poured  into 
the  office  proved  to  me  how  deep  was  the  interest  taken  in 
occult  matters  by  men  and  women  in  nearly  all  walks 
of  life.  I  showed  some  of  these  letters  to  my  wife,  who, 
of  course,  had  long-  ago  attended  seances,  played  about 
with  planchette,  had  her  fortune  read  in  her  hand,  and  so 
forth.  She  is  a  Christian  Scientist  and  was  a  Buddhist, 
or  vice  versa;  I'm  not  quite  sure.  She  likes  plenty  of 
variety  in  her  life.  Anyhow,  all  these  psychic  matters 
were  an  old  tale  to  her.  To  me,  however,  they  were  not, 
although,  of  course,  like  everyone  else,  I  had  heard  a 
good  deal  about  them  casually. 

"Well,  I  thought  I'd  look  into  them  in  my  off  moments, 
see  for  myself  what  I  could  make  of  them.  First,  I  put 
up  one  of  my  cleverest  young  men  to  make  investigations 
for  me — to  prepare  the  ground  as  it  were;  and  then  I 
came  in.  I  went  with  this  young  man,  not  in  my  own 
name,  of  course,  to  a  sitting  with  a  so-called  'psychic' 
whom  he  considered  to  be  not  the  ordinary  humbug.  I 
went  a  second  time,  a  third  time.  My  wife  didn't  know 
about  it.  Unless  my  young  journalist  blabbed — and  I 
think  I  was  too  valuable  to  him  for  him  to  be  such  a 
fool — nobody  except  himself  and  the  psychic  knew  about 
it.  And  the  psychic  didn't  know  who  I  was.  The  re 
sult  of  these  investigations,  although  I  was  thoroughly 
incredulous  when  I  started  them,  was  that  I  felt  there 
was,  in  the  common  phrase,  'something  in  it.'  We  had 
a  lot  of  messages  which  seemed  to  be  sheer  bunkum.  But 
we  had  one  which  was  really  remarkable.  It  referred  to 
my  wife." 

Latimer  had  by  now  finished  his  pipe.  He  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  it,  and  laid  it  down  with  a  slow  and  care 
ful  gesture. 

"This  came  at  the  last  sitting  I  attended  with  my 
newspaper  man.  After  it  I  decided  not  to  sit  again  with 
him  present.  It  informed  me — I  tell  you  this  because 
I've  decided  to  tell  you  everything — that  my  wife  ceased 


222  SNAKE-BITE 

to  love  me  in  a  certain  month  of  a  certain  year.  It, 
moreover,  stated  that  the  reason  for  her  change  of 
heart — I  believe  she  had  been  sincerely  attached  to  me — 
was  the  fact  that  she  had  come  under  the  influence  of  an 
Indian,  a  Hindu,  at  the  time  mentioned.  All  this  was 
conveyed  to  us  by  the  medium,  who  was  a  man,  but 
when  in  a  trance  was  apparently  controlled  by  the  spirit 
of  a  woman  called  Minnie  Harfield.  This  Minnie  Har- 
field  in  real  life,  so  the  spirit  stated,  was  a  woman  of 
but  humble  class  whom  the  Hindu  had  taken  to  be  his 
mistress  and  had  discarded  on  meeting  my  wife.  Owing 
to  her  despair  at  this  desertion,  Minnie  Harfield  had  com 
mitted  suicide.  No  doubt" — here  Latimer  shot  a  self- 
conscious  glance  at  the  doctor — "all  this  seems  to  you 
a  farrago  of  absurdity.  So  it  did  to  me.  But  the  me 
dium  gave  the  Hindu's  name — Nischaya  Varman — and 
certain  details  of  his  appearance,  position  and  acquire 
ments.  These  things,  of  course,  had  hitherto  been  un 
known  by  me." 

"And  were  these  statements  given  fluently  by  the 
supposed  spirit?"  I  asked. 

"No,  with  some  apparent  difficulty,  and  as  it  were 
under  cross-examination." 

"By  you?" 

"By  me.    Yes.    I — I  became  interested." 

"Naturally.    Goon." 

"When  the  sitting  was  over  I  walked  away  with 
my  journalist  He's  an  extremely  clever  and  shrewd 
young  man,  or  he  wouldn't  be  on  my  staff.  Neverthe 
less,  I  played  a  part  with  him.  There  seemed  nothing 
else  to  do.  I  told  him  that  I  was  totally  unable  to  verify 
what  the  medium  had  said,  and  that  I  absolutely  disbe 
lieved  in  the  medium's  bona  fides.  The  Minnie  Harfield 
spirit  I  jeered  at.  I  added  that  I  was  resolved  never  to 
visit  the  medium  again,  and  that  I  relied  on  him — the 
journalist — never  to  speak  of  what  had  just  happened  to 
anybody.  He  replied  that,  of  course,  he  would  do  as  I 
wished,  and  that  no  doubt  we  had  both  been  listening  to 


THE  HINDU 

a  series  of  foolish  lies,  deliberate  inventions  of  the  me 
dium.  And  there  ended  my  association  with  him  in 
occult  matters." 

"Can  you  tell  me  his  name?" 

Latimer  looked  surprised. 

"His  name  is  Maurice  Isaacs.  Needless  to  say  he's  a 
Jew." 

"Thank  you.    Well?" 

"Well,  now,  doctor,  I  had  told  Isaacs  that  I  absolutely 
disbelieved  what  the  medium  had  said  about  my  wife  and 
the  Hindu.  Nevertheless,  I  determined  to  find  out,  if 
possible,  whether  there  was  anything  at  all  in  it.  You 
see,  I  was  by  way  of  investigating — eh?" 

"Precisely!"  I  said. 

"I  knew  that  my  wife  was  a  great  admirer  of  Mrs. 
Sidon,  the  Theosophist  and  lecturer.  I  also  knew,  as  of 
course  you  do,  that  Mrs.  Sidon,  who  usually  lives  in 
India,  has  a  very  wide  acquaintance  among  the  natives. 
Certain  women  of  society  occasionally  gave  evening 
parties  to  meet  Mrs.  Sidon  when  she  was  in  London. 
My  wife  had  been  to  these  parties.  It  was  quite  probable 
that  she  had  met  Easterns  in  that  circle,  though  I  could 
not  remember  that  she  had  ever  spoken  to  me  of  having 
done  so.  Had  she  ever  met  a  Hindu  called  Nischaya 
Varman?  That  was  what  I  wanted  to  know.  Chance 
favoured  my  curiosity.  The  London  season  was  just 
beginning,  and  one  evening  my  wife  mentioned  that 
Mrs.  Sidon  had  returned  from  India  and  was  to  give  a 
lecture  on  'The  Mysteries'  at  Queen's  Hall  on  the  follow 
ing  Sunday. 

"  'Are  you  going?'  I  asked. 

'Yes/  she  answered. 
'  'I  should  like  to  go  with  you/  I  said. 

"  'Of  course — come.  You've  never  heard  her,  have 
you?' 

'  'Never/ 

'  'She  speaks  better  than  any  man  I  ever  listened  to/ 

"On  the  Sunday  we  went.    We  sat  not  far  from  the 


SNAKE-BITE 

platform.  On  it  there  were  several  Indians.  I  saw  my 
wife  looking  at  them  directly  we  had  taken  our  places. 

"'Do  you  know  any  of  those  dark  fellows?*  I  asked 
her. 

"  'Yes.  That* — she  indicated  a  slim  boy — 'is  the  boy 
whom  many  people  in  India  expect  to  develop  into  a 
world  teacher.' 

"I  knew  his  name  and  said  it. 

"  'And  who  are  the  others  ?' 

"But  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Sidon  came  on  to  the  plat 
form  dressed  in  white,  and  looking  like  a  Pope,  and  for 
the  next  hour  and  twenty  minutes  no  voice  was  heard 
but  hers. 

"When  the  lecture  was  over  I  told  my  wife  I  wished 
she  would  take  me  behind  and  introduce  me  to  Mrs. 
Sidon,  by  whose  speaking  powers  I  had  really  been  im 
pressed.  She  seemed  rather  surprised  by  my  request. 

"  'She  must  be  well  worth  knowing/  I  said. 

"  'Yes ;  but  she  doesn't  want  to  know  everybody,'  said 
my  wife  rather  doubtfully. 

"  'Do  you  think  she'd  mind  if  you  took  me?' 

"  'It's  nothing  to  do  with  the  newspapers?' 

"  'On  my  word  of  honour — not.' 

"  'Then  I'll  find  out  if  we  can  see  her.' 

"She  did,  and  I  met  Mrs.  Sidon.  I  also  met  two  or 
three  of  her  Indian  adherents,  which  was  what  I  had 
intended  to  do.  And  with  one  of  these,  a  Hindu  called 
Satyavan,  I  managed  to  become  so  friendly  in  a  few 
minutes  that  it  ended  by  my  arranging  to  meet  him 
again  at  dinner  during  the  following  week.  I  did  not 
tell  my  wife  about  the  dinner.  She  was  talking  to  Mrs. 
Sidon  at  the  moment  and  did  not  hear  us  fixing  up  the 
appointment. 

"Satyavan  and  I  did  dine  together  at  the  Indian  Res 
taurant.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  it?" 

"No,  never,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  it's  not  a  hundred  miles  from  Piccadilly  Cir 
cus,  a  quiet,  unpretending  little  place  on  a  first  floor, 


THE  HINDU 

where  you  get  native  cooking  that's  quite  good.  We 
had  an  excellent  meal.  We  had  to  send  out  for  wine, 
which  I  drank  but  which  was  refused  by  my  new  friend. 
I  dare  say  you  will  have  guessed  my  reason  for  culti 
vating  the  acquaintance  of  Satyavan.  As  he  was  a 
Hindu,  living  in  London  and  frequenting  the  circle  of 
Mrs.  Sidon,  I  thought  it  probable  that  he  might  know 
Nischaya,  if,  indeed,  such  a  person  really  existed.  To 
wards  the  end  of  dinner  I  drew  a  bow  at  a  venture. 

"  'By  the  way,'  I  said,  'you  seem  to  know  most  of  Mrs. 
Sidon's  followers.  What  has  become  of  Nischaya  Var- 
man?' 

"  'Did  you  know  him  ?'  said  Satyavan,  fixing  his  deep 
eyes  upon  me. 

'  'No;  but  I  have  heard  of  him.' 

"  'He  passed  over  to  the  other  side  three  months  ago/ 

"  'Ah !  He  was  rather  a  remarkable  man,  wasn't 
he?* 

"  'Very.  He  had  great  powers,  a  strong,  very  strong 
personality.  Mrs.  Sidon  had  a  high  opinion  of  him  and 
often  consulted  him  when  she  was  writing.  He  was  in 
communication  with  the  masters/ 

"  'But  he  had  a — a  rather  strong  earthly  side,  too, 
hadn't  he?' I  asked. 

"Satyavan,  who  was  lighting  a  cigarette,  gazed  at  me 
for  what  seemed  a  full  minute  before  he  said : 

"  'He  was  a  man  like  other  men  in  certain  ways/ 

"  'Ah !    Poor  Minnie  Harfield !'  I  ejaculated. 

"Satyavan's  face  did  not  change,  but  his  unfathomable 
and  very  sad  eyes  seemed  to  challenge  me. 
'You  knew  her  then  ?'  he  said. 

"  'No;  but  I  know  all  about  her.  She  killed  herself 
on  Nischaya' s  account/ 

"'Well,  if  she  chose  to!'  said  Satyavan.  'A  man 
cannot  stay  in  one  place  for  ever.  We  are  travellers. 
We  pass  on  from  one  place  to  another,  from  one  soul 
to  another/ 

"  'From  one  body  to  another?'  I  hazarded. 


SNAKE-BITE 

"  The  body  is  very  little.  No  doubt  Minnie  Harfield 
had  to  expiate  some  fault  committed  in  a  former  ex 
istence.  She  gave  Nischaya  much  trouble,  as  did  other 
women.  A  man  must  not  be  the  prey  of  women/ 

"  'No,  indeed.  There  is  so  much  in  life  besides  love. 
The  activities  of  the  brain ' 

"I  branched  off  to  other  topics,  doctor.  Satyavan's 
confirmation  of  the  medium's  statements  about  Nischaya 
and  Minnie  Harfield  made  a  great  impression  upon  me. 
Do  you  wonder?" 

"Not  altogether,"  said  I,  non-committally. 

"But  I  had  yet  to  confirm  the  most  important  state 
ment  of  all,  the  one  which  concerned  my  wife.  I — I  care 
for  my  wife." 

There  was  a  moment  of  complete  silence.  Then  Lati- 
mer  resumed : 

"I  resolved  to  return  to  the  medium.  I  resolved  to 
try  to  get  into  communication  through  him,  not  with 
Minnie  Harfield  again,  but  with  someone  else.  By  this 
time  I  had  come  to  believe  in  the  medium's  powers.  I 
made  an  appointment  with  him  by  telephone  without 
giving  my  name,  and  went  to  Fulham — he  lived  there — 
alone  at  night.  On  this  occasion  I  told  the  medium  I 
had  come  with  a  special  purpose,  but  said  nothing  as 
to  what  it  was.  The  medium,  who  was  a  very  weak- 
looking  young  man,  with  thin,  primrose-coloured  hair,, 
flabby  white  hands,  a  bending  body,  and  a  very  genteel 
Cockney  accent,  seemed  pleased  and  heartened.  I  re 
member  he  said  I  was  very  sympathetic.  We  sat  down 
in  a  small,  vulgar  room  on  the  first  floor,  with  a  por 
trait  of  H.  P.  Blavatsky  on  the  wall,  and  a  rep-covered 
sofa  near  the  window.  Before  we  began  the  actual  sit 
ting,  however,  I  inquired  of  the  medium  whether  there 
was  any  means  of  summoning  a  particular  spirit  through 
him.  He  had,  he  had  already  informed  me,  two  'con 
trols,'  but  was  sometimes  taken  possession  of  by  spirits 
whom  he  rather  irreverently  spoke  of  as  'outsiders.'  I 


THE  HINDU 

made  him  understand  that  I  was  there  that  night  to 
communicate  with  an  outsider.  How  was  I  to  do  it? 

"My  young  gentility — he  was  very  ineffective  when 
he  was  not  entranced — seemed  puzzled  by  the  question. 
He  advised  me,  however,  as  soon  as  he  fell  into  the 
trance  condition  to  'put  my  mind  on'  the  spirit  I  wished 
to  communicate  with. 

"'Do  spirits  come  at  call,  then?'  I  asked.  'I  have 
been  told  you  ought  never  to  fix  your  mind  at  a  sitting, 
but  ought  always  to  try  not  to  force  anything.' 

"  There  are  no  rules  as  I  know  of,'  he  said  weakly. 
'They  may  come  or  they  mayn't.  It's  just  as  it  hap 
pens.' 

"He  was  not  illuminating,  and  I  let  him  alone.  Ob 
viously  he  knew  little  more  about  such  matters  than  I 
did.  He  was,  perhaps,  merely  an  instrument.  Indeed, 
I  must  say  for  him  that  he  claimed  to  be  nothing  else. 

"We  sat.  He  fell  presently  into  a  trance.  I  followed 
his  suggestion.  I  'put  my  mind  on'  the  Hindu.  In 
deed,  that  night  I  could  have  done  nothing  else.  With 
all  the  mental  force,  the  power  of  will,  at  my  disposal 
I  summoned  him  to  come  and  to  communicate  with  me. 
Presently  the  medium's  usual  controls,  Katey  and  Jo 
hannes,  came  in  turn,  or  purported  to  come.  They  talked 
a  good  deal  about  matters  uninteresting  to  me,  and  I 
became  very  irritated  and  almost  despairing.  Then  the 
medium  came  out  of  his  trance.  I  was — I  confess  it — 
by  now  in  a  high  state  of  nervous  tension.  It  may  seem 
ridiculous  to  you,  doctor,  but  sitting  there  in  that  vulgar 
little  room  in  a  Fulham  slum,  with  that  ignorant  gen 
teel  young  man,  I  was  companioned  by  the  feeling  that 
there,  and  only  there,  could  I  arrive  at  a  knowledge  of 
the  truth  about  my  wife.  It  seemed  to  me — of  course 
I  was  strung  up — that  already  I  felt  some  influence, 
which  I  believed  to  be  the  Hindu's,  not  far  from  me; 
that  it  had  been  attracted  towards  me  by  my  mental 
demand ;  that,  perhaps,  only  a  very  slight  obstacle  stood 
between  me  and  it.  And  there,  meanwhile,  was  the 


SNAKE-BITE 

medium  weakly  patting  his  white  forehead  with  his  flabby 
hands,  and  murmuring  that  he  must  refresh  himself  with 
a  glass  of  sherry  and  water.  Sherry  and  water! 

"Well,  I  controlled  myself.  I  believe  I  showed  no 
sign  of  the  intense  nervous  irritation  I  was  feeling.  I 
let  him  swallow  his  disgusting  refreshment,  and  then 
I  urged  him  to  try  again. 

"  'Oh,  but  I'm  gone  quite  flabby  with  it/  he  protested. 
'They  take  it  out  of  me,  I  do  assure  you.' 

"I  said  I  would  double  the  fee. 

"  'It  isn't  only  the  money/  he  said.  'A  man  must 
know  when  to  stop/ 

"I  aimed  a  blow  at  his  vanity  then.  Without  mention 
ing  my  name  I  told  him  I  had  great  influence  with  the 
newspapers,  that  already  I  was  much  struck  by  his  pow 
ers,  that  I  sought  a  complete  proof  of  them. 

"  'I  feel  you  can  give  it  to-night/  I  said.  'We  were 
on  the  very  verge  of  something  remarkable  when  you 
came  out  of  the  trance/ 

"  'How  do  you  know  that?'  he  asked,  sipping  at  the 
sherry  glass  with  his  too  flexible  lips. 

"  'I  felt  it.  I  feel  it  now.  There  is  something  that 
wants  to  communicate,  and  can't  unless  you  are  en 
tranced/ 

"He  seemed  impressed  by  my  earnestness,  and  glanced 
round  the  dingy  room  with  his  pale  eyes. 

"  'Well,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do/  he  said,  with  the  air 
of  one  making  a  concession.  'But,  my  word,  shan't  I 
be  poor-spirited  after !' 

"To  cut  further  detail,  doctor,  for  I  don't  want  to 
weary  you — no,  really — the  medium  did  eventually  fall 
once  more  into  a  trance,  and  that  night,  for  the  first 
time,  the  spirit  of  Nischaya,  the  Hindu,  purported  to 
control  him,  to  come  into  connection  with  mine." 

"You  say  purported!"  I  observed.  "Then  you  are 
still  not  thoroughly  convinced?" 

As  I  spoke  I  turned  slightly  in  my  armchair  and 
looked  rather  sharply  at  him. 


THE  HINDU  229 

"I  want — I  want  to  be  unprejudiced.  I  want  to  put 
fancies  at  a  distance." 

Latimer  suddenly  sprang  up  from  his  chair,  with  a 
movement  almost  startingly  swift  in  so  heavy  a  man,  and, 
standing  by  the  fire,  he  continued : 

"You  shall  be  the  judge.  That's  why  I  am  telling 
you  the  whole  business." 

"Give  me  the  material  necessary  to  form  a  judgment 
on,"  I  said. 

"After  the  medium  had  been  entranced  for  a  few  min 
utes,  perhaps  five,  a  very  peculiar  voice  spoke  out  of  him. 
Have  you  ever  heard  a  Hindu  speaking?" 

"I  don't  think  I  have." 

"In  my  opinion  it  was  the  voice  of  a  Hindu.  The 
voice  stated  that  it  was  Nischaya  Varman  who  was 
speaking.  It  seemed  very  reluctant  to  communicate. 
In  fact,  the  whole  impression  produced  on  me  upon  that 
occasion  was  one  of  deep  and  almost  violent  reluctance. 
You  know  how  it  is  when  you,  as  it  is  called,  force 
something  out  of  a  person." 

"Yes." 

"The  Hindu  spoke  like  one  forced  to  speak  and  almost 
malignant  under  the  obligation.  I  didn't  care.  I  went 
straight  to  the  point.  I  spoke  at  once  of  the  Minnie 
Harfield  communication,  and  asked  for  the  truth  of  the 
matter.  There  followed  a  long  silence,  during  which  the 
medium  seemed  strangely  agitated.  The  impression  on 
me  was  of  a  human  being  rent.  It  was  almost  a  con 
vulsion,  and  alarmed  me.  Nevertheless  my  curiosity 
prevented  me  from  interfering.  I  continued  to  sit.  I 
continued  almost  fiercely  to  demand  the  truth  from  the 
Hindu.  I  seemed  to  feel  opposed  to  me  in  the  room  a 
tremendously  strong  influence  which  nevertheless  my 
force  of  will  had  compelled  to  draw  near  to  me  in  de 
spite  of  its  own  desire.  I  believe  I  have  a  strong  will. 
I  don't  like  anything  to  get  the  better  of  me.  And  just 
then  the  thought  of  my  wife  stiffened  my  will,  doctor. 
Had  she  been  overcome  by  this  influence  when  it  was 


230  SNAKE-BITE 

in  life  to  my  horrible  detriment?  Then  it  was  surely 
my  part  to  compel  it  to  my  will  now.  I  was  resolved. 
I  was  hard  as  steel.  All  dread,  if  I  had  had  any,  of 
things  occult  utterly  left  me.  The  convulsions  of  the 
medium  did  not  deter  me.  I  insisted.  I  said,  'You  shall 
not  go.  I  forbid  you  to  go.  I  brought  you  here.  I 
forced  you  to  come  and  I'll  force  you  to  remain/  I  felt 
the  thing,  whatever  it  was,  struggling  against  me." 

"How?"  I  interjected. 

"I  can't  tell  you.  These  occult  things  can't  always 
be  told  of,  even  when  they  are  known.  I  say  to  you  that 
I  felt  the  thing  struggling,  like  moving  water  all  about 


me." 


"Yes?" 

"Until  it  broke  away,  as  an  enemy  might  tear  himself 
out  of  your  hands.  It  was  gone.  The  medium  awoke. 
Poor  chap!  He  was  very  exhausted  that  night.  He 
asked  me  what  had  happened.  He  seemed  frightened.  I 
did  my  best  to  reassure  him,  for  I  was  resolved  to  make 
of  him  my  instrument,  at  whatever  cost  to  myself  or 
him,  until  I  had  got  through  him  the  information  I 
wanted.  By  this  time  I  was  convinced  that  I  really  was 
in  communication  with  some  other  plane,  or  world,  call 
it  whatever  you  like.  I  know  little  of  spiritist  jargon. 
I  had  momentary  doubts,  of  course.  But  I  know  my 
inner  conviction  must  have  been  as  I  say  because  of 
my  intense  preoccupation  with  the  medium,  my  resolute 
determination  to  use  him.  If  I  had  not  secretly  believed, 
I  could  not  have  been  so  ruthless.  If  I  had  known  that 
the  weak  young  man  in  Fulham  would  suffer  in  health, 
even  would  eventually  die,  because  of  the  efforts  to  which 
I  urged  him,  I  should  not  have  desisted  from  them. 

"As  I  said,  he  was  very  exhausted  that  night.  When 
he  seemed  a  little  better  I  paid  him  double  his  fee  and 
said  I  was  coming  again  on  the  following  evening.  He 
said  that  really  he  couldn't  risk  it.  I  replied  I  should 
come.  He  drank  some  more  sherry  and  almost  piteously 
protested.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  any  idea  of  what  was 


THE  HINDU  231 

happening  when  he  was  entranced.  He  said  that  as 
a  rule  he  was  quite  unconscious,  but  that  during  the  last 
sitting  he  had  been  faintly  aware  of  something  which 
had  seemed  to  be  tormenting  him,  doing  him  harm. 

"'And  look  how  it's  left  me!'  he  concluded.  'I'm 
all  to  pieces,  really  I  am.  You've  brought  something  you 
oughtn't  to  'a'  brought,  something  bad,  something  with 
too  much  power.  I  dunno !' 

"His  words  added  to  my  determination.  The  end  of 
it  was,  doctor,  that  I  overcame  all  the  objections  of  the 
poor  thing  by  sheer  bribery.  He  found  I  was  rich.  He 
realised  that  I  was  influential,  and  he  became  my  crea 
ture.  It  did  him  much  harm.  It  practically  wrecked  his 
health  for  a  time.  I  didn't  care. 

"I  won't  describe  my  sittings  with  him  in  detail.  It 
isn't  necessary.  I'll  merely  give  you  my  general  impres 
sion  of  the  sum  of  them. 

"During  them,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  there  began  and 
persisted  a  relentless  struggle  between  two  wills,  mine  on 
this  plane,  and  another — the  Hindu's,  as  I  supposed — 
on  some  other  plane.  It  was  almost  as  if  two  men  were 
striving  on  either  side  of  a  doorway,  one  to  drag  the 
other  through  it  into  the  room  where  he  was,  the  other 
not  to  be  dragged  through.  The  wretched  medium  was, 
as  it  were,  the  doorway.  The  door  was  opened  only 
by  his  falling  into  trance.  At  other  times  it  was  fast 
shut.  My  whole  being  was  bent  upon  overcoming  the 
intense  resistance  of  the  Hindu  to  my  desire  that  he 
should  answer  to  my  summons  and  hold  communication 
with  me. 

"In  the  first  sittings — three  or  four — he  came,  or  pur 
ported  to  come,  and  spoke  a  few  words.  But  just  as  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  that  perhaps  my  power  was  going 
to  prevail  over  his,  he  was  gone.  It  was  as  if  he  died 
out  of  the  medium.  I  had  the  impression  of  a  receding 
wave.  My  irritation  at  these  escapes  was  intense,  but 
my  will  was  not  weakened  by  frustration.  I  am  accus- 


SNAKE-BITE 

tomed  to  carry  through  things  that  I  undertake.  I  was 
resolved  to  carry  this  thing  through." 

"You  had  come  to  be  absolutely  certain,  then,  that  it 
was  really  the  spirit  of  the  Hindu  ?"  I  dropped  out. 

Strong  man  though  he  was  Latimer  looked  shame 
faced. 

"I  suppose  I  had.    Yes,  I  had." 

"Goon!"  said  I. 

"I  took  to  timing  the  visits  of  the  Hindu  to  that  vul 
gar  room  in  Fulham,  and  I  found  that  with  each  sitting 
the  period  during  which  I  was  in  communication  with 
him  grew  slightly  longer.  This  encouraged  my  persist 
ence.  But  the  creature  was  horribly  alert,  was  wary  as 
a  snake.  His  communications  were  fragmentary,  and 
often  almost  meaningless.  By  degrees,  however,  I  ar 
rived  at  a  very  definite  conception  of  him,  a  conception 
of  sinuous  power,  of  brooding  imaginative  thoughtful- 
ness,  varied  by  outbreaks  of  slippery  cunning.  And  I 
detected  in  him  fascination." 

"In  what  did  the  fascination  lie  ?" 

"I  could  scarcely  tell  you.  But — well,  now  and  then 
there  came  from  the  lips  of  the  medium,  speaking  in  the 
Hindu's  voice,  a  phrase  that  pierced,  or  in  which  there 
was  poetry.  And  at  those  moments  I  knew  that  a  woman 
might  be  moved  by  such  phrases  spoken  in  such  a  way, 
moved  to  the  trembling  that  is  like  the  trembling  of 
a  violin  string.  Words  catch  at  women  when  the  voice 
that  speaks  them  in  strange.  Women  love  a  strange  voice 
even  when  it's  ugly.  Haven't  you  noticed  that  in  regard 
to  actors?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  me  to  answer,  but  continued : 

"At  last  one  night  I  attained  my  object;  I  forced  the 
Hindu  to  come  directly  the  medium  was  entranced, 
although  till  then  he  had  always  been  preceded  by  the 
medium's  usual  'controls.'  Not  only  did  I  force  him 
to  come  immediately,  but  I  forced  him  to  speak  of  my 
wife.  Hitherto,  when  I  had  mentioned  my  wife,  either 
I  had  received  evasive  or  unmeaning  replies,  or  the 


THE  HINDU 

Hindu  had  died  out  of  the  medium  who  had  abruptly 
returned  to  consciousness.  On  this  occasion,  however — 
why,  I  don't  know — I  felt  a  power  as  of  iron  within 
me,  a  merciless  faculty  which  seemed  to  enable  me  to 
use  my  power  as  never  before.  The  impression  I  had 
was  of  pinning  something  down,  something  that  strug 
gled  to  escape  but  could  not.  I — sometimes  I  wish  now 
that  it  had  succeeded  in  escaping." 

Latimer  paused.  There  was  a  dawning  of  horror  in 
his  eyes. 

"Why  do  you  wish  that?"  said  I. 

"Do  you  think  it  possible — or,  let  me  say,  can  you 
imagine  it  to  be  possible,  for  one  here  on  earth,  on  this 
plane,  so  to  exercise  power  over  a  being  on  another  plane 
that  the  being  is  in  some  strange  way  dislodged  from 
his  natural  sphere,  and  cannot  regain  it?  Could  such 
a  thing  be?" 

"I  have  had  no  experience  in  such  matters,"  I  replied. 

"Or  another  thing  might  happen,"  continued  Lati 
mer,  staring  hard  at  me  with  eyes  that  now  had  an  in 
ward  look.  "If  a  man  forced  something  to  come  to  him, 
when  it  was  wholly  bent  on  not  responding  to  his  sum 
mons,  it  might  afterwards  refuse  to  go  when  he  wanted 
to  get  rid  of  it.  It  might  revenge  itself  in  some  such 
way  as  that" 

"Do  I  understand  then  that  you  made  the  Hindu  come, 
and  that  he  did  not  go  as  on  former  occasions  ?  Is  that 
what  you  mean?" 

"He  came — yes,  and  he  seemed  to  go.  But  that  may 
have  been  his  cunning.  Anyhow  he  came,  and  I  asked 
him  about  my  wife.  Briefly,  he  said  he  had  known  her, 
had  subdued  her  to  his  power.  About  physical  things 
nothing  was  said.  I  gathered  that  her  mind  and  nature 
had  undergone  the  impress  of  his,  that  she  had  been 
willing  to  do  anything  he  told  her  to  do,  that  she  had 
looked  to  him  as  her  master.  That  was  enough  for  me." 

"You  believed  it  then?"  I  said. 

"That  night  I  did.    And  I  was  seized  by  a  sort  of  mad 


SNAKE-BITE 

rage  such  as  I  had  never  thought  to  experience.  I  believe 
I  was  almost  frenzied.  I  longed  to  get  at  the  Hindu.  I 
was  physically  moved.  I  wanted  him,  this  seducer  of 
women,  there  before  me  in  the  body.  It  drove  me  almost 
mad  to  think  that,  having  done  his  vile  work,  he  had 
tranquilly  passed  away  into  some  other  sphere  while  I 
was  unconscious  even  of  his  existence.  Keep  this  in 
your  mind,  doctor ;  I  wanted  the  Hindu  in  the  body  that 
night  that  I  might  punish  him  in  the  body.  I  remember 
clenching  my  fists ;  I  remember  the  perspiration  breaking 
out  upon  me.  I  am  a  very  ordinary  man,  doctor,  with 
plenty  of  the  unregenerate  brute  in  me,  and  there  was 
something  in  my  peculiar  situation  calculated  to  madden 
such  a  man.  At  such  moments  men  go  to  the  animal 
within  them.  I  did  that.  I  sent  up  to  the  Hindu  a  silent 
cry — 'Come  back  from  the  place  where  you  are  that  I 
may  punish  you  as  you  deserve!  Come  back!'  This 
silent  cry  persisted  in  me  till  I  felt  absolutely  exhausted. 
I  fell  back  in  my  chair.  My  eyes — I  remember — closed. 
My  whole  body  became  cold  and  almost  numb." 

Latimer  had  been  speaking  with  unusual  intensity, 
but  now  his  manner  changed,  turned  to  an  almost  frigid 
dryness.  He  paused,  lit  a  cigar  with  slow  deliberation, 
sat  down  near  to  me,  crossed  his  legs,  leaned  forward, 
and  said : 

"Now  we  come  to  the  matter  which  altered  my  life, 
sent  me  travelling,  and  at  last  brought  me  to  your  door. 

"As  on  former  occasions,  the  Hindu  seemed  to  die 
out  from  the  medium,  who  emerged  from  his  trance. 
I  paid  a  big  fee  and  got  up  to  go.  Looking  down  on 
the  trembling  and  white-faced  young  man,  I  said : 

"  T  may  not  need  to  come  to  you  again/ 

"He  stared  at  me  with  his  pale  eyes.  He  seemed  un 
able  to  understand  what  I  said. 

"  'If  you  are  ever  in  difficulties/  I  continued,  'you  can 
always  write  to  this  address/ 

"And  I  gave  him  the  name  and  address  of  a  confiden 
tial  secretary  of  mine,  and  went  out/' 


THE  HINDU  235 

"And  has  he  ever  written  to  the  address  ?"  I  asked. 

"He  has,  a  good  many  times,"  answered  Latimer,  with 
a  hint  of  impatience. 

"And  received  help?" 

"Of  course;  liberal  help." 

"Go  on." 

"That  night,  as  it  happened,  I  found  my  wife  sitting 
alone  in  the  drawing-room  when  I  got  home.     She  was 
reading  the  last  pamphlet  by  Mrs.  Sidon.     Raising  her 
eyes  from  it  as  I  came  into  the  room,  she  said : 
'  'How  ill  you  look,  Johnnie !' 

"  'I  feel  just  as  usual/  I  answered. 

"I  glanced  down  at  what  she  was  reading. 

"  'More  of  Mrs.  Sidon !'  I  said.  'Do  you  think  that 
sort  of  thing  does  you  much  good?' 

"She  looked  at  the  pamphlet. 

"It's  deeply  interesting." 

"  Is  it  ?  And  where  does  it  lead  you — into  light,  or 
into  darkness  ?' 

"  'Certainly  not  into  darkness/  she  answered. 

"She  looked  at  me  again  with,  I  thought,  a  flickering 
of  curiosity. 

"  'Have  you  got  anything  against  Mrs.  Sidon?'  she 
asked.  'I  thought  you  admired  her.  You  were  anxious 
to  know  her/ 

"I  sat  down  rather  deliberately.  I  was  trying  hard 
to  control  myself,  not  to  show  the  excitement,  the — the — 
it  was  almost  rage  that  was  boiling  up  in  me. 

"  'She's  a  remarkable  woman/  I  said.  'But  don't  you 
think  she  might  easily  upset  very  sensitive  people,  throw 
them  off  their  balance?' 

"  'Sensitive !'  she  said.    'Do  you  mean  by  that  weak?' 
f  'Why  should  you  think  so  ?'  I  replied. 

"At  that  moment,  doctor,  I  was  on  the  very  edge  of 
telling  her  all  I  had  learnt  from  the  medium.  I  wanted 
to  tell  her.  I  longed  to  disturb  her  equanimity,  to  at 
tack  her  ferociously  for  the  silence  she  had  kept.  But 
beneath  my  anger,  my  acute  sense  of  wrong,  there  was 


236  SNAKE-BITE 

something  else,  something  cautious — it's  a  part  of  my 
very  nature,  I  suppose,  and  I  have  cultivated  it,  for  I 
know  its  value.  And  this  caution  lifted  his  voice.  I  got 
up  abruptly,  and,  before  she  could  answer  my  question, 
I  had  left  the  room. 

"It  was  just  ten  o'clock.  I  was  gnawed  by  a  horrible 
restlessness.  I  took  my  hat  and  went  out,  thinking  I 
would  go  down  to  the  big  building  where  my  papers  are 
produced.  I  started  to  walk.  It  was  a  damp  and  foggy 
winter's  night.  The  fog  was  not  dense,  but  it  added  to 
the  mystery  and  the  dreariness  of  the  darkness.  I 
crossed  Oxford  Street,  and  when  I  came  to  the  farther 
side  of  it  decided — I  don't  know  exactly  why — that  I 
would  not  go  to  the  office.  I  think  I  felt  then  a  necessity 
to  be  quite  alone.  Anyhow,  I  walked  on  and  soon  found 
myself  in  Grosvenor  Square.  It  seemed  entirely  de 
serted,  but  I  crossed  over  to  the  pavement  that  runs  by 
the  railings  of  the  square  garden,  and  there,  feeling 
safe  in  my  loneliness,  sheltered  by  the  softly  trailing  fog, 
I  walked  slowly  and,  I  think,  very  quietly,  brooding  over 
the  misery  that  was  mine.  I  had  walked  round  the  square 
more  than  once,  always  keeping  to  the  pavement  on  the 
garden  side,  when  a  man  slipped  by  me  in  the  fog  and 
immediately  was  gone.  I  hadn't  time  to  see  his  face, 
or  even  to  notice  how  he  was  dressed,  though  it  was  not 
so  densely  dark  but  that  I  could  have  got  an  impression 
of  him  had  I  known  he  was  coming  upon  me.  His 
passing  disturbed  me,  indeed  it  distressed  me  strangely." 

Latimer  paused. 

"Strangely !"  I  said.    "What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"Well,  it  made  me  feel  uneasy,"  Latimer  answered, 
with  an  air  of  discomfort  which  almost  suggested  shame. 
"I — I  found  myself  suddenly  aware  of  the  dark  loneli 
ness  of  the  garden  on  my  left,  disliking  it — imaginatively, 
I  think.  And — this  will  seem  very  contemptible  to  you, 
doctor " 

"Certainly  not!"  said  I. 

"Well,  I  went  over  at  once  to  the  other  side  of  the 


THE  HINDU  237 

square,  where  I  had  the  houses  close  on  my  right.  This 
done,  I  walked  on  again  slowly. 

"I  was  just  about  to  cross  the  road  by  the  house  at 
the  corner  of  Duke  Street  opposite  to  the  Japanese  Em 
bassy,  when  I  realised  that  someone  was  approaching 
me.  I  did  not  hear  him — I  knew  it  was  not  a  woman — 
but  I  felt  him  coming;  I  felt,  too,  that  he  was  the  man 
who  had  already  once  passed  me  when  I  was  on  the  op 
posite  pavement.  I  stopped  short.  I  had  a  mind  to  turn 
sharply  to  my  right  down  Duke  Street,  and  to  get  away 
from  the  approaching  stranger.  But  the  cessation  from 
movement  seemed  to  recall  me  to  my  normal  self,  and  I 
understood  at  once  that — I  think  for  the  first  time — I 
was  the  prey  of  something  very  like  unreasoning  fear. 
The  knowledge  came  to  me  like  a  hard  blow.  I  tingled 
with  shame.  And  instantly  I  walked  on  to  meet  the 
man  who  was  approaching  me.  We  met  under  a  lamp. 
He  was  an  Indian." 

"Ah!"  I  ejaculated. 

Latimer  looked  at  me  sharply. 

"Had  you  expected  that  he  would  prove  to  be  an 
Indian?"  he  said. 

"Please  go  on.    Don't  question  me,"  I  replied. 

After  a  rather  long  silence  Latimer  resumed : 

"This  Indian  wore  a  soft  black  hat  and  a  brown  coat, 
almost  buff-coloured,  with  the  collar  turned  up.  He 
slipped  by  me,  without  looking  at  me,  and  immediately 
disappeared  into  the  fog.  His  height  was  much  less 
than  mine.  He  seemed  to  be  very  thin.  I  guess  that  he 
had  very  small  bones.  I  could,  I  suppose,  have  picked 
him  up  and  thrown  him  into  the  road  without  turning  a 
hair.  Yet  I  felt  afraid  of  him." 

Almost  furtively  Latimer  glanced  at  me,  and  a  dull 
flush  of  red  showed  on  his  powerful  face. 

"I  can  honestly  say  that  I  had  never  felt  afraid  of  a 
man  till  that  moment,"  he  added. 

"Why  did  you  feel  afraid  of  this  man?"  I  asked. 


SNAKE-BITE 

"Well,  I  was  startled  when  I  saw  he  was  an  Indian. 
That  seemed  to  me  very  strange." 

"Because  at  the  moment  you  happened  to  be  thinking 
deeply  about  an  Indian." 

"Yes." 

"An  odd  coincidence — but  nothing  more." 

"That's  what  I  told  myself.  I  battled  with  myself, 
with  a  strong,  almost  overpowering  desire  to  get  away 
from  the  square  at  once.  And  almost  immediately — I 
had  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  pavement — I  went  for 
ward.  As  I  did  so  I  knew  that  in  a  few  minutes  I  should 
meet  the  Indian  again.  It  was  inevitable.  He  had 
chosen  Grosvenor  Square  for  a  nocturnal  prowl  as  I  had. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  he  lived,  or  was  staying,  in  the  square. 
When  I  met  him  again  I  was  quite  decided  not  to  be 
disturbed.  Well,  doctor,  not  long  after  I  had  passed  the 
Italian  Embassy  and  was  at  the  end  of  the  square  near 
est  to  Hyde  Park,  I  was  aware  that  the  Indian  was  again 
drawing  near  to  me.  I  heard  no  footfall.  He  was  a 
silent  mover.  But  I  knew  that  he  was  close  to  me.  And 
this  time  my  fear  of  him  increased.  Indeed  it  was  only 
by  a  strong  effort  that  I  checked  myself  from — well, 
call  it  bolting  if  you  like.  We  met  again  under  a  lamp. 
This  time  I  forced  myself  to  stare  hard  at  the  man.  He 
was  certainly  a  Hindu/' 

"What  makes  you  think  that?  Did  you  see  him 
plainly?" 

"Fairly  well.  He  was  a  Hindu.  He  slipped  by  me 
noiselessly  without  looking  at  me,  and  immediately  dis 
appeared  into  the  fog.  I  turned.  I  gazed  after  him.  I 
listened.  And,  doctor,  I  sweated.  My  whole  body  ran 
with  sweat.  After  standing  for  two  or  three  minutes  I 
left  the  square  by  the  nearest  turning.  It  was  Upper 
Grosvenor  Street.  I  reached  Park  Lane,  met  a  taxi, 
hailed  it  and  drove  straight  home.  My  wife  had  gone  to 
bed,  but  I  saw  her  light.  (We  slept  in  communicating 
rooms. )  I  did  not  disturb  her.  I  took  a,  cold  bath " 

"Very  injudicious !"  I  said. 


THE  HINDU  239 

"Was  it?  And  went  to  bed.  I  won't  describe  the 
night.  It  was  a  bad  one.  During  the  following  day 
I  attended  to  business  as  usual.  I  had  an  engagement 
for  the  evening,  to  dine  out  with  my  wife  at  a  house  in 
Eaton  Square.  About  four  I  telephoned  to  her  to  say 
I  couldn't  go  with  her,  as  I  should  have  business  to  at 
tend  to  late.  I  also  telephoned  to  my  prospective  hostess. 
I  felt  in  no  fit  state  for  society.  Besides,  I  wanted  to 
dine  elsewhere.  Soon  after  eight  I  started  on  foot  for  the 
Indian  Restaurant." 

"Can  you  tell  me  exactly  what  led  you  there?" 

"I  felt  a  sort  of  horror  of  darkness,  of  what  is  some 
times  called  'colour/  Therefore  I  went  where  I  knew 
I  should  meet  colour.  That  was  an  act  of  defiance.  But 
in  addition  I  was  driven  by  an  intense,  probably  morbid, 
curiosity.  I  wanted  to  see  the  Hindu  again,  to  see  him 
in  full  light." 

"Why  should  he  be  at  the  Indian  Restaurant?" 

"I  thought  he  might  be  there.  It  is  a  place  frequented 
by  Indians." 

"I  understand." 

"I  walked  rapidly  from  my  house,  crossed  Piccadilly 
Circus,  and  was  soon  at  the  restaurant.  Mounting  the 
stairs,  I  entered  the  first  room.  I  must  tell  you  that 
the  restaurant  consists  of  two  rooms,  or  rather,  perhaps, 
I  should  say  of  one  large  room  divided  into  two  com 
partments  by  a  screen  of  wood  and  glass.  In  the  first 
compartment  there  are  several  small  tables.  In  the  sec 
ond  there  is  one  long  table.  I  don't  know,  but  I  conclude 
that  those  who  dine  in  the  second  compartment  pay  a 
regular  pension,  come  to  the  place  habitually.  When  I 
got  in  I  found  a  party  of  seven  people  dining  at  a  table 
close  to  the  window  in  the  first  compartment — three  In 
dian  men,  an  Englishman,  and  three  Englishwomen. 
Four  more  Indians  were  dining,  each  one  alone,  at  sepa 
rate  small  tables.  In  the  compartment  beyond  I  saw 
three  or  four  heads  as  I  stood  for  a  moment.  Then  one 
pf  the  three  young  women  who  served  gave  me  a  smile 


240  SNAKE-BITE 

and  indicated  a  table.  I  hung  up  my  coat  and  hat  and 
sat  down  facing  the  room  and  the  screen. 

"The  man  I  had  met  in  the  square  was  not  among  the 
diners." 

"But  you  could  not  see  the  faces  of  those  in  the  farther 
compartment,  could  you  ?"  I  interposed. 

"No ;  but  he  wasn't  in  the  farther  room.    I  felt  it." 

"Go  on." 

"I  ordered  my  dinner.  When  it  came  I  began  to  eat 
very  slowly.  On  my  right  hand  was  the  party  of  seven. 
They  had  a  couple  of  bottles  of  champagne  on  the  table, 
were  half  through  their  dinner,  and  were  talking  and 
laughing  in  lively  fashion.  Solemnly  the  dark  men  at 
the  little  tables  ate,  and  smoked  cigarettes  while  waiting 
for  food.  I  watched  the  English  girls  chattering  to  their 
strangely  expressive  companions  and  thought  about  my 
wife  and  the  dead  Hindu.  Had  she  ever  dined  here  with 
him?  I  imagined  them  sitting  together  at  one  of  the 
little  tables  eating  dishes  of  the  East,  deep  in  converse, 
and  the  blood  went  to  my  head,  doctor.  I  had  no  appe 
tite,  but  I  forced  myself  to  eat.  When  I  had  finished 
one  thing  I  ordered  another.  I  wished  to  prolong  my 
stay.  Presently  I  asked  for  a  bottle  of  wine.  It  had  to 
be  sent  out  for.  While  I  was  waiting  for  it  two  or  three 
people,  all  coloured,  dropped  in  and  passed  into  the  far 
ther  room  beyond  the  screen.  At  last  the  wine  arrived, 
and  the  girl  who  waited  on  me  came  with  it  to  my  table 
smiling.  She  stood  in  front  of  me  to  uncork  it,  and 
I  spoke  to  her.  She  replied.  We  talked  for  a  moment, 
and  my  mind  was  taken  away  from  its  brooding  and  ex 
pectation.  We  were  both  laughing,  I  remember,  and 
I  was  looking  at  her  while  she  drew  the  cork,  when 
I  was  aware  that  a  man  came  in  softly  and  quickly  and 
passed  into  the  room  beyond  the  screen.  I  saw  him,  as 
it  were,  with  the  tail  of  my  eye.  He  had  on  a  soft 
black  hat,  a  brown,  almost  buff-coloured  coat.  I  did  not 
see  his  face.  But  I  knew  it  was  the  Hindu  of  Grosvenor 
Square. 


THE  HINDU 

"  'Who  is  that?'  I  asked  the  attendant. 

"She  put  the  bottle  down  on  my  table. 

"  'Who  d'you  mean?'  she  asked,  looking  round. 

"  The  man  who  has  just  gone  into  the  other  room/ 
I  said.  'In  a  black  hat  and  brown  coat/ 

"  'One  of  our  regular  people,  I  s'pose/  she  said.  'I 
didn't  catch  sight  of  him.  Is  your  wine  all  right?' 

"I  sipped  it  and  made  some  answer.    She  went  away. 

"I  stared  towards  the  screen.  Through  the  opening 
in  it  I  saw  two  or  three  people  sitting  at  dinner,  but  not 
the  man  who  had  just  passed  in.  Half  an  hour  went  by. 
My  seven  neighbours  left  their  table  hilariously,  gath 
ered  together  their  coats  and  wraps,  and  went  laughing 
down  the  stairs.  Other  diners  finished  their  meals,  paid 
their  bills  and  departed.  Some  came  from  the  inner 
compartment,  but  not  the  Hindu.  I  sat  over  my  wine, 
pretending  to  drink,  smoking  and  waiting.  Now  and 
then  I  saw  the  girls,  when  they  were  not  attending  to 
customers,  glancing  at  me  and  whispering  among  them 
selves.  Evidently  they  were  surprised  that  I  sat  so  long. 
I  was  now  the  only  customer  on  my  side  of  the  screen 
and  I  could  see  no  one  at  the  long  table  in  the  second 
compartment ;  nor  did  I  hear  any  sound  of  voices  coming 
to  me  from  the  hidden  part  of  the  room.  Nevertheless 
I  knew  that  the  Hindu  was  still  there.  He  had  gone  in 
and  he  had  never  returned.  He  must  be  there.  I  was 
resolved  to  wait  where  I  was  till  he  came  out.  I  should 
then  have  a  full  sight  of  him,  a  full  and  definite  impres 
sion  of  him.  Presently  I  ordered  coffee.  The  young 
woman,  when  she  brought  it,  remarked : 

"  'You're  the  last.  We're  closing  in  ten  minutes  from 
now.' 

"  'You're  glad  when  closing  time  comes  ?' 

"  'Rather/ 

"  'But  I'm  not  the  last,'  I  said.  There's  still  someone 
in  the  farther  room/ 

"She  looked  surprised  and  raised  her  fair  eyebrows. 

"  'No,  there  isn't,'  she  said.    'Everyone's  gone/ 


SNAKE-BITE 

"  'Not  the  man  with  the  black  hat  and  the  brown  coat 
whose  name  I  asked  you/ 

"'Well,  you  are  a  funny  one!'  she  said  archly.  'If 
you  don't  believe  me  come  and  see  for  yourself/ 

"I  took  her  at  her  word  and  went  with  her  to  the 
opening  in  the  screen.  The  long  table  was  cleared.  The 
compartment  was  empty.  And,  doctor,  there  was  no 
way  of  leaving  it  except  through  the  compartment  in 
which  I  had  been  sitting. 

"  'What  d'you  say  now  ?'  said  the  girl. 

"  'That  I  made  a  mistake/  I  answered. 

"I  gave  her  a  tip,  took  my  hat,  and  went  off  down  the 
stairs.  But  I  had  not  made  a  mistake.  The  Hindu  had 
gone  into  the  compartment  beyond  the  screen  but  he  had 
never  come  out  of  it." 

"Are  you  absolutely  certain  he  didn't  come  out  when 
your  attention  happened  to  be  distracted  from  watching 
for  him?" 

"It  never  was  distracted.    I  feel  sure  of  that." 

"Well,  what  did  you  make  of  it  ?" 

"I  think  you  know,"  said  Latimer. 

"I  wish  you  to  tell  me,"  I  said  firmly. 

"Very  well." 

Latimer  paused,  then  sat  forward  and  closed  his  hands 
into  fists  like  a  man  making  a  strong  effort. 

"When  I  met  the  Hindu  in  Grosvenor  Square  I  felt 
at  once  that  there  was  something  dreadful,  something 
wholly  unnatural  about  him,  something  which  made  me 
want  to  get  away  from  him.  The  same  feeling  came  to 
me  in  the  Indian  Restaurant  when  he  passed  through  the 
compartment  in  which  I  was  sitting;  it  was  with  me  till 
I  looked  and  found  him  gone.  Then  suddenly  I  knew 
why  his  nearness  had  horrified  me.  As  I  made  my  way 
down  into  the  humming  street  I  felt  like  a  man  con 
demned.  For  I  was  certain  that  I  had  seen  Nischaya 
Varman,  the  man  who  had  taken  my  wife  from  me  and 
who  was  what  we  call  dead.  In  a  wild  moment  of  anger, 
I  had  striven  to  summon  him  to  me  that  I  might  punish 


THE  HINDU  243 

him.    He  had  obeyed  my  summons  that  he  might  punish 


me." 


"So  you  considered  yourself  haunted  by  the  Hindu?" 
I  said  calmly. 

"Since  that  night  I  have  seldom  known  what  it  is  to 
feel  safe." 

"Give  me  the  facts.  You  have  seen  the  Hindu — I 
mean  by  that  had  the  impression  of  seeing  him — many 
times?" 

"Many  times.  But  do  you  believe  the  whole  thing  is 
a  delusion  on  my  part  ?" 

"Haven't  you  come  to  me  in  the  hope  that  it  is  so, 
and  that  I  may  be  able  to  prove  that  it  is  by  getting 
rid  of  it?" 

"In  my  situation  one  hopes  mad  things  and  catches 
at  every  straw,"  said  Latimer  morosely. 

"Now  what  happened  after  that  night  at  the  Indian 
Restaurant?" 

"I  was  badly  shaken  but  I  made  a  fight  of  it.  All 
that  night  I  fought  what  seemed  to  be  my  own  knowl 
edge.  I  told  myself  that  I  was  ill.  If  I  pulled  myself 
together,  if  I  ceased  henceforth  to  traffic  with  mediums, 
if  I  drove  the  whole  matter  out  of  my  mind  and  gave 
myself  up  to  the  daily  work  then,  I  told  myself,  all 
would  be  well." 

"A  very  good  programme,  though  it  didn't  cover  quite 
everything." 

"You  mean — my  wife?" 

"Did  you  proceed  to  put  it  into  execution?"  I  asked, 
ignoring  Latimer's  question. 

"I  tried  to.  I  put  my  back  into  it,  doctor.  I  gave 
myself  more  than  ever  to  my  newspapers,  the  children 
I  had  created — the  only  children — and  I  saw  scarcely 
anything  of  my  wife.  I  did  not  visit  the  medium  again, 
of  course.  By  then  I  had  a  horror  of  him,  and  of  all 
his  brethren.  Several  days  passed  without  any  special 
incident  occurring.  But  I  was  never  free  from  appre 
hension;  I  never  even  for  a  moment  had  the  impression 


244  SNAKE-BITE 

that  the  menace  I  was  so  conscious  of  had  been  removed 
from  me.  I'll  go  further  and  tell  you  the  exact  truth. 
I  knew  it  had  not  been  removed. 

"One  night  my  wife  said : 

"  I've  got  a  box  to-morrow  for  the  first  night  at  the 
St.  James's  Theatre.  I've  asked' — she  mentioned  some 
friends.  'Will  you  come  ?' 

"I  was  on  the  point  of  refusing  when  I  noticed  in 
her  eyes  an  expression  of — I  thought — suspicious  and 
intent  inquiry.  Immediately  I  decided  to  go.  And  I 
went.  You  know  what  a  St.  James's  first  night  is;  a 
crowd  of  people  one  has  seen  everywhere.  The  boxes 
are  very  large.  We  had  three  people  with  us,  and  were 
all  able  to  sit  in  line.  I  was  in  the  corner  next  the  stage 
and  could  see  practically  the  whole  of  the  stalls.  During 
the  first  act  I  happened  to  notice  that  one  stall,  rather 
far  back  and  well  in  the  middle  of  the  house,  was  empty. 
Doctor,  directly  I  saw  this  empty  stall  I  knew  who  was 
presently  coming  to  fill  it.  I  was  seized  with  a  sort  of 
horrible  panic  which  made  me  know,  and  I  did  not  take 
my  eyes  from  the  little  gap  in  the  crowd  till  the  woman 
next  me  said : 

"  'Do  you  hate  the  drama,  Mr.  Latimer?' 

"  'No,'  I  answered.  'On  the  contrary,  I'm  fond  of 
the  theatre.  Why  d'you  ask  me  ?' 

"  'Well,  you  never  look  at  the  stage/ 

"She  was  gazing  at  me  with  an  expression  of  definite 
surprise  which  put  me  at  once  on  my  guard.  I  devoted, 
or  seemed  to  devote,  all  my  attention  to  the  stage  from 
that  moment,  but,  doctor,  I  knew — I'll  swear  it — the  ex 
act  instant  when  that  empty  stall  was  filled.  I  felt  the 
arrival  of  the  Hindu." 

"You  didn't  see  him  come  in  ?"  I  asked. 

"No,  because  I  wouldn't  look.  But  directly  the  cur 
tain  went  down  I  turned.  And  he  was  there  looking 
straight  at  me.  For  the  first  time  I  saw  him  fully,  saw 
his  whole  face  and  his  head  uncovered.  He  was  in  eve 
ning  dress,  doctor." 


THE  HINDU  245 

so,"  I  said  casually. 

"There  was  something  intense  and,  I  thought,  unre 
lentingly  malignant  in  the  gaze  of  his  profound  and  lam 
bent  eyes.  They  said  to  me,  'I  am  here  to  punish  you.' 
I  got  up.  My  wife  was  lifting  an  opera  glass.  She  put 
it  to  her  eyes  and  looked  down  upon  the  stalls.  I  saw 
her  examining  the  long  rows  of  seated  figures,  beginning 
with  those  nearest  to  the  stage.  What  would  happen 
when  she  saw  the  Hindu  ?  I  was  painfully  excited.  I 
longed  to  draw  her  attention  to  him,  to  say  to  her,  'Look 
at  that  man.  Do  you  remember  him  ?'  But  I  pretended 
carelessness.  I  talked  to  our  friends.  I  discussed  the 
play,  the  people  in  the  house.  And  all  the  time  furtively 
I  was  watching  my  wife.  Presently  it  seemed  to  me  that 
she  was  staring  through  her  glasses  straight  at  the 
Hindu.  Yet  her  hand  did  not  tremble,  her  face  did  not 
change.  I  heard  her  say : 

"  'What  an  odd  gown  Mrs.  Lester  has  on  !' 

"  'Where  is  she  ?'  I  asked,  bending  to  her. 

"  'Over  there,  a  little  to  the  left,  near  Sir  Charles 
Digby.' 

"She  made  a  gesture  towards  the  stalls.  I  looked  and 
saw  Mrs.  Lester,  an  acquaintance  of  ours,  sitting  in  the 
row  behind  the  Hindu,  and  perhaps  three  feet  to  his  left. 
There  was  a  discussion  between  my  wife  and  one  of  the 
women  in  our  box  about  Mrs.  Lester's  gown,  which  I 
interrupted — I  couldn't  help  it — by  saying : 

"  'What  a  remarkable-looking  Indian  that  is.' 

"  'An  Indian !  Where  is  there  an  Indian  ?'  said  my 
wife. 

"  'Close  to  Mrs.  Lester,  the  row  in  front  of  her  to 
the  right.' 

"  'I  don't  see  him/  said  my  wife. 

"  'Nor  I,'  said  the  woman  next  to  her. 

"  'There !'  I  said,  pointing,  and  leaning  forward  in  my 
excitement.  'Surely  you  must  see  him — a  Hindu/ 

"  'But  I  don't  see  him!'  said  my  wife,  also  leaning  for 
ward,  and  gazing  apparently  straight  at  the  Hindu. 


246  SNAKE-BITE 

"  'You're  looking  right  at  him  now !'  I  exclaimed. 

"As  I  spoke  the  lights  went  down  and  the  curtain  rose 
on  the  last  act. 

"When  the  play  was  over  and  the  actors  were  being 
called  for,  I  searched  once  more  for  the  Hindu.  But  he 
had  vanished." 

"And  nobody  saw  him  but  yourself,  so  far  as  you 
know?"  I  observed. 

"So  far  as  I  know — nobody." 

"Now  before  you  go  on  I  want  to  ask  you  a  few  ques 
tions,"  I  said. 

"Very  well,"  said  Latimer,  more  calmly. 

"You've  been  travelling,  I  understand  ?" 

"Yes." 

"How  many  times  did  you  see  the  Hindu  before  you 
left  England?" 

"About  eight  or  nine  times  in  all,  I  should  think." 

"Did  you  ever  see  him  in  the  daytime?" 

"No." 

"Did  you  ever  try  to  speak  to  him?" 

"No.  I  intended  to,  but — when  the  moment  came 
something  always  held  me  back." 

"Have  you  ever  spoken  to  your  wife  about  him,  except 
that  night  at  the  theatre?" 

"No." 

"I  gather  that  you  suffered  so  much  from  these  ap 
pearances  that  you  decided  to  leave  England  ?" 

"I  did." 

"In  the  faint  hope,  I  suppose,  of  leaving  the  Hindu 
behind  you  in  England?" 

"It  was  very  ridiculous  of  me,  no  doubt,"  said  Latimer 
painfully. 

"It  was  a  very  natural  thing  to  do.  Change  of  scene 
you  know !  Where  did  you  go,  and  did  you  go  alone  ?" 

"You  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  my  English 
experiences?" 

"We  needn't  go  into  them  just  now,  I  think.    Well?" 


THE  HINDU  247 

"I  took  my  man,  Cradon,  with  me.  We  went  first  to 
Marseilles  and  stayed  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre." 

"I  know  it.    Now  go  on.    Resume  your  narrative." 

"Oh!" 

Latimer  hesitated,  then  refilled  his  pipe,  lit  it,  and  said 
nervously : 

"Let's  see — where  was  I?" 

"At  Marseilles,  the  Hotel  du  Louvre." 

"To  be  sure.    Yes,  Marseilles." 

He  puffed  two  or  three  times  at  his  pipe,  staring  be 
fore  him.  Evidently  he  was  trying  to  fix  his  mind  which 
had  wandered  away. 

"When  I  had  crossed  the  Channel,  had  left  Paris  be 
hind  me,  and  was  running  down  South,"  he  said  at  length, 
"I  had  a  sense  of  relief.  A  burden  seemed  to  have  fallen 
from  my  shoulders.  The  sun  shone  at  Marseilles.  The 
city  was  full  of  almost  boisterous  animation.  As  I 
stepped  out  of  the  train  I  remember  I  felt  more  optimistic 
than  I  had  felt  for  many  weeks.  This  happy  sensation 
persisted  during  the  day.  I  intended  passing  a  couple  of 
nights  at  Marseilles  to — well,  to  test  a  certain  matter. 
If  things  were  satisfactory  I  thought  of  going  on  to 
the  Riviera.  I  slept  well  the  first  night,  and  the  second 
day  was  without  any  unpleasant  incident.  I  began  to 
hope.  I  looked  back  on  the  dreadful  persecution — it  was 
most  dreadful,  doctor — I  had  suffered  in  England  from 
the  Hindu,  and  I  was  able  to  think  that  my  tortured 
nerves  had  conjured  up  that  dark  apparition.  It  was 
due,  perhaps,  merely  to  a  morbid  condition  of  mind  pro 
duced  by  ill-health;  and  that  ill-health — I  now  told  my 
self — had  been  brought  about  by  the  shock  of  the  me 
dium's  revelation  about  my  wife.  In  the  bright  sunshine 
of  Marseilles  the  blackness  of  the  past  began  to  fade. 
I  was  even  able  to  say  to  myself  that  out  of  the  mouth 
of  the  medium  lies  had  come  to  me.  I  could  not,  of 
course,  doubt  the  Minnie  Harfield  statement  about  the 
Hindu's  existence  and  her  suicide.  But  I  tried  to  doubt, 
and  almost  succeeded  in  doubting,  the  statement  about 


248  SNAKE-BITE 

my  wife.  There  was,  I  acknowledge,  little  reason  in 
such  a  differentiation  between  the  two  statements.  Never 
theless,  I  think  I  made  it.  That  day  I  was  almost  light- 
hearted.  But  in  the  evening  all  my  misery  was  brought 
back  by  a  hideous  incident.  You  know  the  hall  of  the 
Hotel  du  Louvre  which  fronts  the  covered  courtyard  into 
which  carriages  can  drive?" 

"Yes." 

"After  dinner  in  the  restaurant  I  was  sitting  there, 
smoking  and  reading  a  newspaper,  when  the  hotel  omni 
bus  drove  up  from  the  station  with  some  newly  arrived 
travellers.  I  realised  this,  as  one  may  realise  a  thing 
when  reading,  without  really  attending  to  it.  Travellers 
got  out — I  know — went  to  the  bureau,  took  their  rooms, 
received  the  tickets  with  their  room  numbers,  and  so 
forth,  and  passed  by  me  on  the  way  to  the  lift  which, 
you'll  remember,  is  in  the  centre  at  the  bottom  of  the 
staircase.  I  went  on  with  my  reading,  knowing  all  this 
and  not  attending  to  it.  But  suddenly  a  horrible  sensa 
tion  came  upon  me.  It  was  the  sensation  I  had  had  that 
night  in  Grosvenor  Square,  when  for  the  first  time  I  set 
eyes  on  the  Hindu.  I  felt  that  he  was  coming  into  the 
hall,  that  he  was  passing  me.  I  did  not  look  up.  I  tried 
to  deny  the  assertion  of  my  mind  and  body — for  I  felt 
him  with  both.  With  my  eyes  glued  to  my  paper  I  said 
to  myself,  'You  are  a  morbid  fool.  He  is  not  here. 
Some  casual  traveller  is  passing  you/  And  I  strove  to 
read  on.  But  something  overcame  my  resolution.  It 
was  like  a  sort  of  terrible  curiosity,  insistent,  stronger 
than  my  will  to  defy  it.  I  swung  round  abruptly  in  my 
chair  and  looked  cowards  the  staircase.  Doctor,  I  saw 
the  Hindu  with  his  back  to  me  on  the  point  of  entering 
the  lift  which  had  just  descended  from  an  upper  floor. 
He  wore  the  black  hat,  the  almost  buff-coloured  coat.  He 
went  into  the  lift.  The  lift  man,  with  a  click,  shut  the 
gate.  The  Hindu  turned  and  looked  full  at  me.  Then 
the  lift  shot  up,  carrying  him  out  of  my  sight." 

Latimer's  face  was  tormented.    It  was  easy  to  see  how 


THE  HINDU  249 

even  the  mere  recollection  of  this  incident  made  him 
suffer. 

"I  had  almost  dared  to  think  myself  free,"  he  said  with 
a  hoarse  note  in  his  voice.  "And  now  I — the — the  thing 
had  followed  me.  I  was  conscious  at  that  moment  of  its 
horrible  persistence,  of  the  malignity  by  which  it  was 
driven.  At  that  moment  something  that  was  like  sheer 
desperation  seized  me.  I  threw  down  my  newspaper  and 
got  up  from  my  chair.  I  saw  the  manager  in  the  bureau, 
and  I  went  up  to  him. 

"  Those  travellers/  I  said,  'who  have  just  arrived. 
What  train  did  they  come  by  ?' 

"  The  rapide  from  Paris,  monsieur.' 

"  'A  traveller  from  London  would  be  likely  to  come 
by  that  train  ?' 

"  'If  he  had  stayed  the  night  in  Paris,  monsieur,  he 
would/ 

'  'Have  you  the  names  of  those  who  have  just  come  in 
the  omnibus?' 

"  'Yes,  monsieur.  They  are  all  in  the  visitors'  book/ 
"May  I  seek?' 

"  'Certainly,  monsieur.' 

"He  pushed  it  towards  me.  I  looked.  I  scarcely  know, 
but  I  think  I  had  a  wild  hope  of  seeing  some  Indian 
name  unknown  by  me,  of  finding  that  my  fears  had  be 
trayed  me,  and  that  the  Hindu  who  had  just  mounted  in 
the  lift  was  some  ordinary  traveller  on  his  way  to  the 
East.  There  was  no  Indian  name  in  the  book.  I  saw 
surprise  dawning  in  the  manager's  face. 

"  T  thought  I  might  find  the  name  of — of  a  friend,' 
I  muttered,  turning  away. 

"  'Quite  so,  monsieur,'  said  the  manager,  with  detached 
courtesy. 

"As  I  left  the  bureau  I  saw  the  lift  standing  empty  with 
the  attendant  beside  it.  I  went  to  it  and  got  in.  The 
man  followed. 

"  'Which  floor,  monsieur?' 


250  SNAKE-BITE 

"I  told  him.  Directly  the  lift  had  started  I  pressed 
ten  francs  into  his  hand. 

"  Who  was  that  Indian  gentleman  you  took  up  just 
now?'  I  said. 

"  'An  Indian  gentleman,  monsieur?' 

"  'Yes/ 

"  'But  I  took  no  Indian  gentleman/ 

"  'Do  you  deny  that  a  moment  ago  you  took  the  lift 
up?' 

"  'Certainly  not,  monsieur/ 

"  'Very  well.    An  Indian  was  with  you  in  the  lift/ 

"  Tardon,  monsieur,  but  monsieur  is  mistaken/ 

'  'But  I  saw  you  go  up/ 

"  'There  was  no  one  in  the  lift  with  me,  monsieur,  I 
assure  you!  I  took  the  lift  up  because  the  bell  on  the 
fourth  floor  rang.  I  have  just  brought  a  lady  down/ 

"  'Do  you  deny  that  there  was  an  Indian  with  you 
when  you  went  up,  a  man  wearing  a  soft  black  hat  and 
a  light  brown  coat?' 

"  'Monsieur  is  mistaken.    I  was  quite  alone  in  the  lift/ 

"For  over  a  minute  the  lift  had  been  stationary  at 
my  floor.  The  expression  on  the  man's  face  warned  me 
that  I  was  wasting  my  time  and  arousing  strong  sus 
picions  concerning  my  own  sanity.  Without  another 
word  I  got  out  of  the  lift  and  went  to  my  room.  Next 
morning  after  a  sleepless  night  I  left  the  hotel.  I  might 
almost  say  I  fled  from  it." 

"And  you  went  to  the  Riviera  ?" 

"No.  I  crossed  the  sea.  I  heard  there  was  a  ship 
starting  for  Philippeville  in  Algeria.  I  went  on  board. 
I  suppose  I  had  a  mad  idea  of  escaping  from  that  travel 
ler  who  had  pursued  me  from  England.  Of  course  it 
was  a  crazy  notion.  One  may  escape  from  a  living  man. 
The  sea  may  be  an  effectual  barrier  between  you  and  him. 
But  I  was  pursued  by  one  who  could  overpass  any  bar 
rier  at  will.  I  knew  this,  and  yet,  when  we  were  out  at 
sea,  when  Marseilles  had  disappeared  on  the  horizon, 
I  felt  some  sense  of  relief.  After  a  voyage  of  about 


THE  HINDU 

thirty-six  hours,  I  landed  at  Philippeville.  I  stayed  there 
one  night,  then  took  the  train  and  went  on  to  a  little 
place  called  Hammam  Meskoutine,  where  there  are  hot 
water  springs  impregnated  with  sulphur." 

"What  took  you  there?"  said  I. 

"Hitherto  I  had  always  seen  the  Hindu  in  the  midst 
of  men,  either  in  London  or  in  Marseilles.  Hammam 
Meskoutine  I  knew  to  be  a  tiny  place  buried  in  the  Afri 
can  solitude,  though  far  from  the  desert.  I  thought, 
Terhaps  he  will  not  follow  me  into  the  solitudes.7 

"The  hotel  at  the  baths  stands  quite  alone,  surrounded 
by  a  delicious  flowering  country,  smiling  and  intimate. 
The  sulphur  springs  boil  up  out  of  the  earth  at  a  little 
distance  away.  There  is  a  small,  but  well-arranged,  bath 
establishment  just  below  the  hotel,  which  is  of  the  bunga 
low  type,  with  all  the  rooms  on  the  ground  floor.  Mine 
opened  by  a  French  window  on  to  a  paved  walk.  Beyond 
was  an  open  space  with  trees  bounded  by  outbuildings. 
On  the  right,  and  at  right  angles,  was  a  terrace  backed 
by  the  public  room  of  the  hotel.  Few  people  were  stay 
ing  there,  only  some  four  or  five  Colonial  French  people. 
The  landlord  was  cordial;  the  servants  were  friendly, 
cheerful  and  attentive.  And  the  whole  atmosphere  of 
the  place  was  serene  and  remote,  yet  eminently  happy. 
Even  my  man,  Cradon,  was  struck  by  the  sweet  tran 
quillity  of  this  African  retreat. 

"  Tve  always  liked  towns,  sir,'  he  observed,  on  the 
evening  of  our  arrival  just  before  dinner.  'But  I  think 
a  man  could  forget  all  about  them  here.' 

"Something  in  the  commonplace  words  cheered  and 
almost  reassured  me.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  me  that 
perhaps  I,  for  years  a  colossal  worker,  untiring  in  energy 
and  always  living  in  the  midst  of  crowds — for  I  never 
took  a  real  holiday — had,  without  being  aware  of  it,  be 
come  thoroughly  overworked." 

"Why  not  ?"  I  said.    "What  more  likely  ?" 

"You  think" — a  gleam  of  hope  shone  in  Latimer's 
eyes — "you  think  overwork  might "  He  stopped. 


SNAKE-BITE 

"But  madness  would  be  worse  than  all!"  he  muttered, 
as  if  to  himself. 

"Madness !  Rubbish !"  I  said.  "You're  no  more  mad 
than  I  am." 

"You  are  sure?"  said  Latimer,  whose  eyes  at  that  mo 
ment  had  an  almost  imploring  expression. 

"Positive,"  said  I.  "If  I  thought  otherwise  I  should 
take  you  to-morrow  to  Vernon  Mansfield,  the  specialist 
in  lunacy — if  you'd  come." 

A  faint  smile  flitted  over  Latimer's  face. 

"But  if  I'm  not  mad  then  I  am  really  haunted,  I  am 
really  the  victim  of  a  diabolic  persecution.  There's  no 
other  alternative." 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  of  that,"  I  said.  "No,  no ;  don't 
ask  me  questions.  Go  on — till  I  stop  you.  Did  anything 
happen  at  Hammam  Meskoutine?" 

"Yes." 

"What  was  it?" 

"Nothing  happened  the  first  night.  But  I  felt  very 
uneasy  on  account  of  my  room  being  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  opening  by  the  French  window  on  to  the  paved 
walk.  There  were  Persiennes  of  wood  outside  the  win 
dow,  and  before  going  to  bed  I  shut  them  securely,  but, 
nevertheless,  I  disliked  the  idea  that  anyone  could  walk, 
or  pause,  outside  within  a  few  feet  of  me  as  I  lay  in 
bed." 

"But  if  you  were  haunted  what  was  to  prevent  the 
Hindu  from  appearing  in  your  room,  even  with  doors  and 
windows  locked?"  I  asked. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  returned  Latimer.  "But  that  had 
never  happened,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  never  did  hap 
pen.  I  always  saw  him  in  circumstances  which  seemed 
to  make  it  possible  that  he  was  an  ordinary  man.  He 
never  appeared  and  disappeared  as  so-called  ghosts  are 
said  to  do,  though  on  one  or  two  occasions,  as  at  the 
Indian  Restaurant,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  imagine 
the  means  of  his  exit  from  the  place  to  which  I  had  seen 
him  go." 


THE  HINDU  253 

"So  you  were  not  afraid  of  seeing  him  with  you  when 
you  had  locked  the  door  and  shut  the  window?" 

"Somehow  I  was  not.  But  I  dreaded  his  coming  along 
the  pavement,  and,  perhaps,  lingering  in  the  night  outside 
my  window.  Therefore  I  lay  awake.  But  nothing  oc 
curred  on  that  first  night,  and  the  dawn  broke  heralding 
a  day  of  celestial  clearness,  such  as  we  never  see  in  Eng 
land.  Insects  were  humming,  I  remember,  as  I  came 
out  into  the  sunshine  that  morning.  Two  or  three  Arabs 
were  dreaming  under  the  eucalyptus  trees.  There  was  a 
marvellous  peace,  a  clear  serenity  in  the  atmosphere, 
which  affected  my  spirits  happily.  I  felt  drowsy  after 
my  almost  sleepless  night,  but  there  was  nothing  to  do, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  seek 
some  shady  place,  to  lie  down  among  the  wild  flowers 
which  abound  in  that  region,  and,  like  an  Arab,  to  dream 
away  the  shining  hours.  After  breakfast  on  the  terrace 
and  a  pipe,  I,  therefore,  wandered  away  from  the  hotel 
into  the  smiling  and  empty  country,  which  was  peopled 
chiefly,  it  seemed,  by  butterflies.  First  I  took  my  way  to 
the  sulphur  springs ;  then  I  made  a  detour,  and  presently 
came  upon  a  most  delicious  stream,  bordered  thickly  with 
aromatic  shrubs  and  bushes.  Besides  the  windings  of 
this  stream  I  strolled  on  for  some  time  till  I  came  to  a 
place  where  it  made  a  loop  and  widened  out  into  a  sort 
of  pool.  Here  there  were  shade  and  silence,  and  I  lay 
down  on  the  bank,  pulled  my  hat  down  over  my  eyes, 
and,  presently,  fell  deliciously  into  a  light  sleep.  I  don't 
really  know  how  long  I  slept,  but  when  I  woke — I  did 
not  open  my  eyes  immediately — I  knew  at  once  that  I 
was  no  longer  alone  beside  the  stream.  I  heard  no  sound 
except  the  wide  hum  of  the  insects,  and  the  very  faint 
and  sucking  murmur  of  moving  water  against  earth  and 
weeds,  but  I  felt  men  near  me,  silent  men.  And  in  a 
moment  the  faint  scent  of  tobacco  was  in  my  nostrils. 
Then  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  saw  not  far  from  me  a 
group  of  meditative  Arabs.  Three  were  squatting  on 
the  bank  at  the  edge  of  the  stream,  shrouded  in  burnouses, 


354  SNAKE-BITE 

calmly  contemplating  me,  and  smoking.  A  fourth  was 
lying  stretched  upon  the  ground  entirely  muffled  up  in 
voluminous  clothing.  The  whole  of  his  head  and  face 
was  hidden  from  me.  I  supposed  him  to  be  in  a  very- 
pro  found  sleep. 

"I  gazed  at  the  Arabs  and  the  Arabs  gazed  at  me 
tranquilly.  Their  presence  was  really  soothing.  They 
were  picturesque  and  immobile.  Nevertheless,  as  soon, 
I  think,  as  I  was  absolutely  wide  awake,  I  was  aware 
of  a  feeling  of  distress.  I  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 
Then  my  eyes  fell  on  the  sleeper  and  remained  fixed  on 
him.  He  looked  just  like  a  long  bundle  which  had  been 
flung  down  by  the  waterside.  But  I  divined  a  body  be 
neath  the  muddle  of  garments.  And  while  I  looked 
the  bundle  stirred  and  a  bare  leg  was  thrust  into  view. 
The  leg  was  dark  brown  and  abnormally  thin,  as  thin  as 
a  stick. 

"Doctor,  as  soon  as  I  saw  it  I  thought  of  the  Hindu. 
I  stared  at  the  leg,  noting  the  fineness  of  the  ankle,  and 
a  sick  shudder  went  through  me.  I  got  up.  I  wanted 
to  get  away,  and  yet  I  felt  I  must  see  the  face  of  that 
sleeping  man.  I  stood  for  a  moment,  trying  to  collect 
myself,  to  consider  what  to  do.  Then  I  forced  myself 
to  approach  the  group.  I  took  out  some  money  and  of 
fered  it  to  the  Arabs.  They  held  out  their  hands  gravely. 
As  I  was  giving  them  the  money  the  bundle  stirred.  A 
thin  arm  came  out  of  the  clothes.  Then  a  face  and  a 
pair  of  glittering  eyes  showed  themselves.  Again  I 
looked  on  the  Hindu." 

Latimer  ceased  speaking  for  a  moment.  He  seemed  to 
be  profoundly  moved. 

"Now  you  had  your  opportunity,"  I  said.  "Of  course 
you  took  it.  Of  course  you  made  sure  that  this  man 
was  a  comrade  of  the  Arabs,  that  they  were  aware  of 
his  presence  among  them.  Of  course  you  gave  him 
money,  too.  Didn't  you  ?" 

Latimer  shook  his  head. 

"I  thought  of  that  as  I  stood  there.    I  meant  to  do  it 


THE  HINDU  255 

I  tried  mentally  to  force  myself  to  do  it.  But  I  couldn't, 
doctor.  Horror  had  seized  me.  I  left  them.  I  plunged 
into  the  thick  undergrowth.  My  only  idea  was  to  get 
away." 

"While  you  were  there  did  any  of  the  Arabs  appear  to 
take  any  notice  of  the  huddled  figure  ?" 

"No.    They  were  looking  at  me." 

"And  when  the  figure  moved?" 

"None  of  them  looked  at  it    Their  eyes  were  always 


on  me." 


"If  only  you  could  have  plucked  up  courage  on  that 
occasion,"  I  said,  with  intentional  brusqueness,  "you 
would  have  found  that  you  had  to  deal  with  some  wan 
dering  Oriental.  You  missed  your  chance." 

"Possibly — on  that  one  occasion,"  said  Latimer. 

"You  told  me,"  I  continued,  still  brusquely,  "that  dur 
ing  your  last  sitting  with  the  medium  you  longed  for 
the  Hindu's  bodily  presence  that  you  might  punish  him. 
You  told  me  that  you  made  an  intense  effort  of  the  will 
to  force  him  to  return  to  earth.  According  to  your  ac 
count  your  effort  was  successful.  Did  you  never  attempt 
to  take  advantage  of  your  success?" 

"I  have  thought  of  that  too,"  said  Latimer,  with  a 
sort  of  morose  shame.  "I  thought  of  that  many  times. 
But  the  Hindu  seemed  to  lay  upon  me  a  prohibition.  I 
cannot  exactly  explain  its  nature  to  you.  His  will  seemed 
to  come  upon  me  and  to  prohibit  me  from  playing  the 
man.  That  fact  was,  and  is,  perhaps  the  most  distressing 
part  of  my  whole  experience.  The  Hindu's  will  bound 
me  fast  in  cowardice.  Nevertheless  I  did  make  one  at 
tempt  to  break  the  spell.  It  was  while  we  were  at  Tunis." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  I.  "And  then,  perhaps,  I  will 
not  trouble  you  to  give  me  the  whole  of  the  remainder 
of  your  adventures." 

"Do  you — have  you  formed  any  opinion?"  exclaimed 
Latimer,  with  sudden  excitement. 

"Perhaps  I  have.     But  I  shall  not  tell  it  to  you  to- 


256  SNAKE-BITE 

night,"  I  answered.  "Some  time  will  be  needed  to  con 
firm  or  upset  it." 

"But  can't  you  say  at  least " 

"Not  now,"  I  interrupted.  "Tell  me  what  happened 
at  Tunis.  Did  you  go  there  soon?" 

"I  left  Hammam  Meskoutine  the  day  after  I  saw  the 
Hindu  beside  the  stream,  and  I  went  straight  to  Tunis, 
where  I  arrived  very  late  at  night.  For  some  reason — 
I  think  the  Foreign  Minister  had  just  disembarked  there 
from  Paris  to  assist  at  some  French  national  demonstra 
tion — the  European  hotels  were  crowded.  I  tried  three 
of  them  and  could  not  get  a  room.  The  last  I  went  to 
was  the  Grand.  There  they  recommended  me  to  try 
what  they  called  a  native  hotel.  It  was  now  the  dead  of 
night.  The  manager  sent  with  me  a  Maltese  man,  a  sort 
of  tout,  I  supposed,  to  show  me  the  way.  He  carried  my 
hand  luggage  with  the  help  of  my  man,  Cradon,  who 
was  by  this  time  in  a  somewhat  depressed,  not  to  say, 
surly,  humour.  We  walked  for  about  ten  minutes,  or 
perhaps  more,  and  came  into  the  native  quarter,  close 
to  the  bazaars.  We  turned  into  an  alley,  which  had  a 
sufficiently  evil  look,  and  presently  arrived  at  a  door 
above  which  was  a  light  showing  the  words,  'Hotel 
Taxim.'  The  guide  pushed  the  door  which  opened  show 
ing  a  tiled  stairway,  up  which  we  went  and  arrived  at 
a  sort  of  large  landing  where,  to  my  surprise,  we  found 
three  enormous  women,  with  artificial  flowers  in  their 
greasy  black  hair,  sitting  solemnly  on  a  yellow  settee  near 
a  cottage  piano.  The  guide  spoke  in  Arabic  to  one  of 
them,  in  a  low  voice  and  at  considerable  length.  The 
creature  arose  heavily,  went  to  a  bureau,  found  some 
keys,  and  then,  moving  lethargically,  showed  me  to  a 
door  which  she  unlocked  and  opened  carefully.  Within 
was  a  clean  bare  bedroom,  fairly  large,  with  a  tiled  floor. 
The  luggage  was  put  down,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  was 
alone  with  the  door  locked.  Cradon,  whose  face  had 
been  a  study  in  respectable  consternation  during  these 
proceedings,  was,  I  understood,  to  be  lodged  in  some 


THE  HINDU  257 

other  part  of  the  house.  I  undressed  at  once  and  went  to 
bed. 

"In  the  morning  rather  early  I  rang  the  bell,  intending 
to  ask  for  coffee.  After  a  long  pause  I  heard  a  shuffling 
sound  outside  as  of  someone  moving  over  the  tiles  in 
loose  slippers.  The  shuffling  ceased  at  my  door,  and 
then  there  came  a  light,  I  might  almost  say  a  fragile 
knock.  I — I  felt  that  a  very  thin  hand  had  struck  that 
blow,  and  I  hesitated  to  open  the  door." 

"Did  you  open  it?"  I  asked,  as  Latimer  was  silent. 

"No,"  he  said  very  painfully.  "I  couldn't.  I — I  was 
afraid." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  called  out  in  French  that  I  wanted  coffee  and  a 
roll.  There  was  no  answer,  but  I  heard  the  footsteps 
shuffle  away." 

"A  servant  of  the  house,  of  course;  probably  a 
woman." 

"I  don't  know.  While  I  waited  for  the  coffee  I  tried 
to  pull  myself  together.  I  was  horribly  ashamed  of 
my  panic.  I  realised  that  my  nerves  were  going  abso 
lutely  to  pieces.  It's  very  unpleasant  for  a  man  when 
he — he's  obliged  to  realise  that,  doctor." 

"Nerves  can  be  put  right,"  said  I  firmly.  "And  it's 
my  job  to  see  to  that." 

A  sort  of  momentary  relief  came  into  his  face,  but 
it  faded  away  immediately. 

"Nerves  couldn't  play  such  tricks,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"If  you  knew  as  much  about  them  as  I  do,"  I  said, 
"you  mightn't  be  so  free  with  your  negatives.  Did  the 
coffee  and  roll  come?" 

He  started. 

"The  coffee?  Oh — yes,  presently  it  did.  I  heard  a 
quite  different  footstep  from  the  shuffling  tread,  and 
there  came  a  bang  on  my  door.  I  opened,  and  there 
stood  my  Maltese  guide  of  the  night  before  with  a  break 
fast  tray.  He  gave  me  a  rough  'Bon  jour/  came  into  the 


258  SNAKE-BITE 

room  and  set  the  tray  down.  He  was  about  to  go  away 
when  I  stopped  him. 

"  'Who  told  you  I  wanted  coffee?'  I  asked. 

"  The  bell  rang/  he  replied. 

"  'You  didn't  answer  it.' 

"  'But  I  have  answered  it,  m'sieu  P  he  said,  pointing 
to  the  coffee  tray. 

"  'You  didn't  come  to  take  my  order  ?' 

"  'No,  m'sieu/ 

"  'Someone  did.  Someone  came  and  knocked,  and  I 
called  out.  Who  was  it?' 

"  'I  don't  know.  There  are  often  people  about  in  this 
house/  He  smiled  in  a  rather  peculiar  way. 

"  'Could  it  have  been  a  native  servant?  Do  they  wear 
loose  slippers?' 

"  T  don't  know  who  it  was/  said  he  brusquely.  'You 
should  have  opened  the  door/ 

He  smiled  again,  with  a  peculiarly  knowing  look.  Then 
he  added : 

"  'I  heard  the  bell  and  I  knew  it  was  for  coffee.  And 
there  it  is!' 

"He  pointed  again  with  a  dark  brown  hand,  gave  me 
a  monkey-like  smirk,  and  hurried  away.  I  noticed  that 
he  wore  strong  boots  which  made  a  squeaking  noise  on 
the  tiles. 

"That  morning  Cradon  gave  me  certain  information 
about  the  reputation  of  the  house  we  were  in,  and  I 
resolved  to  sally  forth  and  see  if  I  could  bribe  the 
management  of  the  Tunisia  Palace  Hotel  to  give  me 
rooms  there. 

"As  I  was  about  to  descend  the  tiled  staircase  of  the 
'Taxim/  which  led  out  to  the  alley  through  a  Moorish 
archway,  I  saw  in  the  archway,  leaning  against  the  wall, 
the  thin  figure  of  a  native  wearing  a  turban.  When  I 
put  my  foot  on  the  first  stair  he  turned  and  looked  up 
at  me.  Doctor,  it  was  the  Hindu.  I  stood  still  for  a 
moment.  That  prohibition  came  upon  me  from  him, 
and  I  was  afraid  to  go  down.  While  I  paused  he  moved 


THE  HINDU  259 

into  the  alley,  crossed  slowly  a  patch  of  sunlight  and 
disappeared.  It  was  then  that  I  made  a  determined  ef 
fort  to  break  the  spell  which  bound  me  to  cowardice. 
Something  rose  up  in  me  which  defied  the  will  of  the 
Hindu.  It  was,  I  think,  a  sort  of  panic  courage  such  as 
comes  at  moments  to  the  most  timid  of  God's  creatures ; 
such  courage  makes  men  run  upon  danger,  go  out  to 
meet  pain.  I  hurried  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  alley. 
I  took  the  way  the  Hindu  had  taken.  Before  me  I  saw 
several  native  figures  strolling  along  with  that  sort  of 
indolent  nonchalance  which  is  so  characteristic  of  the 
East.  They  all  looked  much  alike,  and  I  could  not  iden 
tify  one  as  the  Hindu.  I  followed,  came  up  with  them 
one  after  the  other,  and  looked  narrowly  into  their  faces. 
But  I  did  not  see  my  man.  I  hurried  on  and  found  my 
self  almost  immediately  in  the  slipper  bazaar.  Here 
there  was  already  a  crowd,  and  I  despaired  of  coming 
upon  the  Hindu,  though  I  seemed  to  feel  all  this  time 
that  he  was  near  to  me." 

"What  did  you  intend  to  do  if  you  came  upon  him?" 
I  said. 

"Lay  hands  on  him,"  said  Latimer.  "Find  out  at 
once  and  for  ever  what  he  was.  I  mingled  with  the 
crowd.  Flies  were  buzzing  and  men  were  buzzing  like 
flies.  There  was  a  tumult  of  voices  and  a  silent  tumult 
of  gestures.  But  through  the  tumult  glided  many  who 
were  silent  and  who  seemed  detached.  And  among  these 
silent  ones  I  sought  for  the  Hindu.  But  I  sought  for 
him  in  vain,  and  I  grew  tired. 

"Presently,  from  a  tiny  hole  where  he  sat  cross-legged 
in  the  midst  of  his  wares  behind  a  little  counter,  a  per 
fume-seller  leaned  out  and  called  to  me.  I  then  stopped, 
sat  down  on  a  wooden  bench,  and  tested  his  perfumes  as 
he  rubbed  them  delicately  on  my  outstretched  hand  and 
wrist.  And  while  this  happened  my  sense  of  the  Hindu's 
nearness  left  me.  The  perfumes — amber,  lilac,  attar 
of  roses,  geranium— affected  me,  seemed  to  steal  upon 
my  will  and  to  lull  the  fever  of  my  intention.  The  Hindu 


260  SNAKE-BITE 

had  escaped  from  me.  Let  him  go!  However,  I  felt 
neither  courage  nor  cowardice.  For  a  brief  space  I 
dropped  into  rest. 

"I  was  buying  a  diapered  bottle  of  geranium  when 
I  realised  that  a  man  had  stopped  close  behind  me.  I 
looked  round  and  saw  an  enormous  Tunisian,  with  gigan 
tic  moustaches,  and  black  eyes  which  shone  with  cunning, 
who  stared  steadily  at  me. 

"  'Monsieur  is  rich !'  said  he,  in  French.  'Monsieur 
wishes  to  buy  beautiful  things.  I  will  take  him  to  Babou- 
chi  Brothers.  There  he  will  see  carpets  that  are  worth 
millions/ 

"  'Very  well/  said  I. 

"And  I  paid  for  the  perfume  and  followed  the  tout, 
who  looked  and  moved  like  the  Emperor  of  some  glit 
tering  fairy  tale.  When  we  reached  his  patron's  bazaar 
I  found  that  it  was  really  one  of  the  finest  in  Tunis,  if 
not  the  finest.  On  the  ground  floor  there  was  a  large 
hall  lined  with  splendid  carpets,  full  of  embroideries, 
weapons,  ancient  lamps,  incense  burners,  screens  of  ex 
quisite  woodwork.  Rows  and  rows  of  shelves  were  piled 
with  stuffs  of  multi-coloured  hues.  A  fountain  played 
in  a  corner,  throwing  up  scented  water.  From  this  hall 
a  staircase  led  up  to  a  balcony  which  ran  all  round  a 
courtyard  open  to  the  sky,  and  from  this  balcony  opened 
a  veritable  network  of  narrow  and  shadowy  rooms,  a 
maze  crammed  with  all  sorts  of  things — furniture,  car 
pets,  prayer  rugs,  bronzes,  ivories,  tiles,  and  I  know  not 
what.  Looking  here  and  there  into  the  shadowy  re 
cesses  of  this  maze,  I  saw  figures  of  dark-hued  men  mov 
ing,  squatting,  or  standing  in  watchful  attitudes,  waiting, 
no  doubt,  for  opportunities  to  display  the  treasures  by 
which  they  were  surrounded. 

"Doctor,  when  I  mounted  to  this  balcony  and  stood 
in  the  midst  of  this  maze,  I  was  suddenly  again  aware 
of  the  presence  of  the  Hindu.  I  did  not  see  him,  but 
I  felt  him;  and  I  was  absolutely  certain  that  the  figure 
I  had  seen  leaning  against  the  archway  of  the  Taxim 


THE  HINDU  261 

Hotel  had  escaped  from  me  into  this  warren  full  of 
hiding-places,  and  was  somewhere  quite  near  to  me. 
Again  I  felt  fear,  but  I  remembered  that  I  had  set  forth 
in  pursuit  of  the  Hindu,  and  I  resolved  to  face  the  thing 
out  this  time.  I  had  suffered  so  much  through  yielding 
to  fear  that  I  was  driven  at  last  into  action.  The  most 
intimate  part  of  me  tried  to  rush  down  the  staircase,  to 
be  lost  in  the  crowds  of  Tunis.  I  defied  that  part,  which 
seemed  me.  I  had  just  then  the  impression  of  being 
two  persons,  and  the  weaker  rose  up  to  do  battle  with 
the  stronger  of  the  two,  and  for  the  moment  got  the 
better  in  the  contest. 

"  'I'll  look  at  all  your  best  things/  I  said  to  the  enor 
mous  tout,  who  was  always  with  me.  'But  first  let  me 
wander  about  by  myself/ 

"  'I  will  show  monsieur/ 

"  'No/  I  said,  'I  wish  to  go  round  by  myself.  I  don't 
mean  to  steal  things/ 

"He  protested  volubly,  but  showed  no  inclination  to 
leave  me. 

"  'Very  well/  I  said.  'Then  I  won't  buy  anything/ 
And  I  made  as  though  to  be  off.  This  brought  him 
promptly  to  obedience. 

"  'Go  anywhere,  monsieur !'  he  cTied.  'You  are  Eng 
lish.  All  the  English  are  honest/ 

"He  paused. 

"  'And  so  generous  F  he  added,  showing  an  upturned 
palm. 

"I  crossed  it  with  silver  and  left  him. 

"Doctor,  then  began  a  hunt  through  that  Oriental 
maze.  I  entered  the  chamber  nearest  to  me  and  went 
slowly  through  it,  pretending  to  examine  the  treasures 
it  contained,  now  and  then  handling  a  weapon,  or  hold 
ing  a  fold  of  silk  to  the  light.  The  native  attendants, 
I  must  tell  you,  left  me  alone.  The  tout  had  somehow 
managed  to  convey  to  them  a  hint  that  I  was  a  mad 
Englishman,  whose  mania  was  to  be  allowed  free  scope 
for  a  time.  Later,  of  course,  I  was  to  pay  for  it. 


262  SNAKE-BITE 

"From  room  to  room  of  the  maze  I  went,  always 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  the  Hindu  in  some  remote 
recess  of  it.  Sometimes  he  seemed  almost  close  to  me, 
at  other  times  he  receded.  I  had  the  sensation  that  he 
was  playing  with  me,  was  luring  me  on  like  a  malignant 
will-o'-the-wisp.  But  my  resolve  did  not  falter.  I  had 
braced  myself  to  the  encounter.  I  was  on  his  track,  and 
I  was  resolved  to  come  up  with  him. 

"After  threading  several  windings  of  the  maze,  I 
was  aware  of  a  strong  and  drowsy  smell  of  incense. 
When  it  first  reached  my  nostrils  I  was  standing  in  a 
small  room  full  of  prayer  rugs.  They  lay  heaped  upon 
shelves,  strewn  upon  the  floor,  and  in  piles  upon  the 
divans.  Seated  in  the  midst  of  them  was  a  thin  black 
man  with  mournful  eyes,  who  was  twisting  a  necklace 
of  bright  yellow  beads  through  his  fingers.  As  I  smelt 
the  incense,  which  came  to  me  from  a  dark  chamber 
on  my  right,  not  yet  visited  by  me,  I  knew  that  the 
Hindu  was  close  by.  It  may  seem  very  absurd,  but — but 
the  incense  seemed  to  tell  me  so.  I  felt  as  if  his  per 
sonality,  his  will,  floated  to  me  as  smoke  wreathes  and 
floats  from  an  incense  burner — almost  as  if  they  were 
mingled  with  that  scented  smoke  of  the  East  which  per 
fumed  the  maze.  I  remember  I  thought  of  the  malig 
nant  genius  who  came  out  of  his  prison  in  smoke. 

"Making  a  great  effort  to  conquer  my  repulsion  and 
fear,  I  approached  the  threshold  of  the  chamber  beyond 
and,  without  entering  it,  looked  stealthily  in.  It  was 
very  dark.  (Afterwards  I  knew  that  thin  Indian  hang 
ings  obscured  the  light  from  the  balcony. )  In  the  gloom 
I  perceived  many  grotesque  idols  arranged  upon  ped 
estals,  and  small  tables  of  inlaid  work  in  which  fine  ivory, 
ebony,  mother-of-pearl  and  cedar- wood  were  blended. 
They  looked  down,  peered  down  fatuously  or  malicious 
ly,  too,  from  tall  cabinets.  Lamps  of  dingy  metal  and 
dark-coloured  glass  hung  from  the  ceiling,  across  which 
carpets  were  stretched.  The  scent  of  the  incense  here 
was  very  strong,  almost  overpowering.  After  a  pause 


THE  HINDU  263 

I  ventured  into  the  room.  It  was  long  and  much  larger 
than  I  had  expected,  running  back  in  an  almost  black 
vista  peopled  with  curiosities.  I  could  see  no  one  in  it. 
Nor  could  I  see  the  brazier  from  which  the  smoke  of 
the  incense  came.  As  I  stood  there  I  began  to  feel  like 
one  coming  under  the  influence  of  a  drug,  slightly  in 
toxicated,  faintly  light-headed.  There  was  a  divan  near 
me  covered  with  embroideries.  I  sat  down  on  it  and 
leaned  back." 

"Did  you  still  feel  the  nearness  of  the  Hindu?"  I 
asked. 

"Yes.  I  felt  that  he  was  almost  close  to  me.  As  I 
did  not  move  for  several  minutes  the  black  man  in  the 
room  I  had  quitted  stole  in,  I  suppose  to  see  what  I  was 
doing.  He  only  remained  for  an  instant,  but  soon  re 
turned  bringing  me  Turkish  coffee  and  cigarettes.  He 
set  them  down  on  a  low  table  by  the  divan  and  vanished 
without  making  a  sound.  I  drank  two  cups  of  coffee. 
It  had  a  stimulating  effect  upon  me.  The  queer  light 
headed  sensation  diminished.  I  stood  up  and  looked  all 
round  me. 

"On  every  side  I  saw  the  dim  faces  of  the  idols  smil 
ing  or  rigid  in  the  gloom.  They  seemed  to  me  at  that 
moment  to  be  an  audience  assembled  there  to  witness 
the  encounter  between  me  and  the  Hindu.  I  knew  now 
that  he  was  somewhere  in  that  room  with  me.  We  were 
enclosed  together  at  last,  and  I  was  resolved  to  face  him. 

"All  the  back  part  of  the  room  was  indistinct  from 
where  I  stood.  He  must  be  hidden  there  among  the 
rummage  of  cabinets,  carpets,  and  ornaments.  Walk 
ing  very  slowly  and  warily,  and  calling  all  my  will  power 
to  fight  down  the  unnatural  fear  which  always  over 
took  me  when  the  Hindu  was  near  me,  I  went  towards 
the  back  of  the  room.  I  walked  on  till  I  saw  the  wall 
at  the  end,  which  was  hung  with  carpets.  Rolls  of  car 
pet  were  stacked  against  it.  Some  of  them,  standing 
on  end,  looked  like  dwarfish  forms  in  the  twilight.  The 
scent  of  the  incense  was  here  much  stronger,  and  as  I 


SNAKE-BITE 

stared  about  me  I  presently  saw  a  faint  spiral  of  scarcely 
defined  smoke  curving  quite  near  me.  I  stood  still  by  a 
tall  cabinet.  On  the  wall,  close  to  my  hand,  there  was 
a  sword  with  a  Damascene  blade.  My  hand  went  up 
to  it  instinctively,  took  it  down  and  gripped  it.  Then 
I  did  what  I  had  done  in  the  medium's  rooms  at  Ful- 
ham.  I  sent  out  to  the  Hindu  the  silent  cry,  'Come  to 
me  from  the  place  where  you  are  that  I  may  punish  you !' 
I  exerted  the  whole  strength  of  all  my  being.  In  a  mo 
ment  among  the  rolls  of  carpet  I  saw  something  stirring 
low  down.  It  seemed  to  uncurl,  doctor,  to  stretch  itself, 
to  extend  itself  towards  me.  I  saw  thin  arms  held  out 
for  an  instant;  then  a  thoroughly  defined  human  body 
in  a  long  native  robe  rising  from  the  place  where  it  had 
been  crouched  near  the  incense  brazier.  Beneath  the 
snow-white  folds  of  a  turban  I  saw  a  man's  dark  face 
and  attentive  eyes.  It  was  the  Hindu.  I  said  something 
— I  don't  know  what,  but  I  addressed  him.  There  was 
no  reply.  He  simply  stood  there  looking  at  me.  Then 
I— I  attacked  him." 

"You  laid  hands  upon  him  ?"  I  interjected. 

"No,  I  couldn't  do  that.  I  struck  at  him  with  the 
blade  of  the  sword.  I  scarcely  know  what  happened. 
The  light  was  very  dim.  But  he  must  have  moved  with 
abnormal  quickness.  For  there  was  a  crash.  The  sword 
flew  out  of  my  hand,  and  when  the  black  man  glided  in 
from  the  adjoining  room  a — it's  horribly  absurd,  doc 
tor!" 

"Nevermind.    Tell  me." 

"A  bronze  statue  of  Buddha  lay  at  my  feet.  The 
sword  was  splintered  and  the  Hindu  was  gone." 

"The  attendant  of  the  room  of  the  idols,  you  mean?" 

Latimer  said  nothing,  but  his  face  was  grimly  ob 
stinate,  the  face  of  the  man  under  the  obsession  of  the 
fixed  idea. 

"And  when  the  black  man  came?"  I  asked. 

"I  paid  for  the  statue  and  for  the  sword,  and  got  away 
quickly." 


THE  HINDU  265 

"And  since  then  ?" 

"I  have  seen  the  Hindu  on  several  occasions,  but  I 
have  never  attempted  to  speak  to,  or  confront  him.  On 
the  contrary,  I  have  got  away  from  him.  And — and 
the  persecution  has  increased.  I  know  he  follows  me. 
I  am  certain  he  is  always  seeking  me." 

"That  will  do  for  the  moment,"  I  said.  "Now  will 
you  do  what  I  tell  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.  To-morrow  you  will  go  into  a  rest  cure 
which  will  last  six  weeks.  I  have  an  establishment  at 
Hampstead  arranged  for  nervous  sufferers,  with  nurses 
of  my  own  selection.  You  will  have  a  first-rate  male 
nurse.  For  six  weeks  you  will  be  isolated  from  the 
world.  You  will  have  no  letters,  no  newspapers,  no 
visitors  except  myself.  The  Hindu  will  not  be  able  to 
come  near  you.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

I  got  up  and  laid  my  hand  on  his  forehead. 

"You  will  not  see  the  Hindu  for  six  weeks,"  I  repeated 
in  a  firm  voice  several  times. 

Latimer  looked  at  me  in  silence.  I  took  away  my 
hand. 

"You  will  call  at  my  house  to-morrow  at  ten  with  any 
luggage  you  require.  The  male  attendant  who  will  look 
after  you  and  give  you  massage  will  be  there  to  go  with 
you  to  Hampstead.  You  will  be  at  my  house  punctually 
at  ten." 

"I  will,"  replied  Latimer  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  now,"  said  I,  in  a  brisk  and  practical  tone,  "I'll 
ask  you  to  give  me  a  couple  of  addresses." 

"A  couple  of  addresses?"  said  Latimer  in  a  surprised 
voice. 

"Yes;  the  address  of  the  medium  you  visited  at  Ful- 
ham,  and  the  address  of  the  Jewish  journalist  who  ac 
companied  you  on  your  first  visit  there." 

"But  why  do  you  want  them?    What  can " 

"Mr.  Latimer,"  I  said,  "I  am  accustomed  to  have  my 
own  way  when  I  take  up  a  nervous  case.  I  have  my  own 


266  SNAKE-BITE 

methods  of  working.  Nobody  need  fall  in  with  them. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  am  perfectly  free  to  refuse  to  treat 
you.  And  I  shall  refuse  unless  all  my  instructions  are 
carried  out." 

"But  what  can  my  giving  you  those  addresses  have 
to  do  with  my  cure?" 

"Possibly  everything,"  I  replied. 

Latimer  looked  at  me  for  a  minute  in  silence.  Then 
he  went  to  his  writing-table,  wrote  out  a  couple  of  ad 
dresses  and  handed  them  to  me. 

"Thank  you,"  said  I.  "And  now  I'll  wish  you  good 
night.  Don't  sit  up.  Go  straight  to  bed,  look  steadily 
at  some  shining  object — half  a  crown  will  do — and  say 
aloud,  'When  I  have  counted  ten  my  eyes  will  close  and 
I  shall  fall  into  a  refreshing  sleep/  Say  this  several 
times,  and  try  to  believe  it  while  you're  saying  it.  I  tell 
you  now  that  your  eyes  will  close  and  that  you  will 
sleep.  Good  night." 

He  seized  my  hand  and  held  it  fast. 

"But  do  you  really  believe  that — that  you  can  bring 
this  persecution  to  an  end?" 

"I  have  very  little  doubt  of  it.  I  fully  expect  to  get 
rid  of  the  Hindu." 

His  grip  tightened  on  my  hand. 

"I  shall  do  exactly  what  you  tell  me  to  do,"  he 
said. 

And  from  that  moment  I  knew  that  he  would. 

Next  morning  punctually  at  ten  Latimer  arrived  with 
his  luggage,  and  I  handed  him  over  to  the  nurse  I  had 
spoken  of.  He  disappeared  from  the  world  for  six 
weeks.  Before  he  left  my  consulting-room  he  told  me 
that  he  had  followed  my  directions  and  had  slept  well 
the  night  before.  My  last  words  to  him  were: 

"Remember  you  will  not  see  the  Hindu  for  six  weeks." 

"Thank  God!"  he  replied. 

He  then  went  away  looking  almost  cheerful. 

I  had  now  three  things  to  do  in  connection  with  his 
affairs.  I  had  to  see  the  medium,  the  journalist,  and 


THE  HINDU  267 

Mrs.  Latimer.  I  decided  first  to  visit  the  medium.  That 
same  evening  I  looked  his  name  out  in  the  telephone 
book.  His  name,  let  us  say,  was  Algernon  Wigston.  I 
found  it  and  called  him  up.  A  very  soft  and  genteel  voice 
answered,  and  said: 

"Yes?    Beg  pardon!    Yes?" 

"Mr.  Algernon  Wigston?"  said  I. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  said  the  genteel  voice.  "I  am  Mr. 
Wigston." 

"I  have  heard  of  your  marvellous  powers,"  I  said. 
"Could  you  give  me  a  sitting?  It  is  very  important." 

"Oh,  reely!"  said  Algernon. 

"Money  is  no  object,"  I  breathed  into  the  telephone. 

"Who  is  it,  please?"  said  Algernon. 

"I  prefer  not  to  give  my  name.  It's  rather  well  known. 
But  I  will  pay  any  reasonable  fee  you  care  to  name." 

After  a  slight  pause  the  voice  said : 

"I'm  very  much  sought  after.  What  would  you  say 
to  three  guineas?" 

"That  it's  extremely  moderate  considering  your  repu 
tation,"  said  I. 

A  very  pleased  voice  made  an  appointment  with  me 
for  the  following  evening  at  nine.  I  kept  it. 

When  I  arrived  at  2,  Amelia  Villas,  Fulham,  a  small 
maid,  wearing  her  cap  very  much  on  one  side,  showed  me 
into  the  room  Latimer  had  described  to  me,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  I  was  joined  there  by  Algernon  Wigston. 
At  first  sight  he  looked  a  weak,  well-intentioned  and 
rather  foolish  young  man,  but  I  had  only  been  with  him 
for  two  or  three  minutes  when  I  noticed  that  his  pale 
and  wandering  eyes  could  look  very  sly  on  occasion,  and 
that  he  was  by  no  means  devoid  of  shrewdness.  I  paid 
him  a  few  compliments,  which  he  received  with  gusto, 
but  avoided  answering  his  questions,  which  were  directed 
to  finding  out  who  had  told  me  about  him  and  his  won 
derful  powers.  Finally,  when  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
as  to  his  character,  I  asked  for  the  promised  "sitting." 
He  complied  with  my  request.  We  sat  down  at  a  table, 


268  SNAKE-BITE 

placed  our  hands  upon  it,  and  very  soon  he  seemed  to  go 
into  a  trance.  Something  of  this  sort  followed. 

His  "control,"  Katey,  took  possession  of  him  and  bab 
bled  foolishly  till  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  to  business. 
Then  I  said: 

"I  wish  to  speak  with  Minnie  Harfield." 

The  medium  jumped,  and  there  was  a  dead  silence. 

"I  am  here  to-night  to  speak  to  Minnie  Harfield,"  I 
continued.  "The  woman  who  committed  suicide  on  ac 
count  of  the  Hindu,  Nischaya  Varman." 

Silence  prevailed. 

"I  ask  for  Minnie  Harfield,"  I  said  in  a  sterner,  more 
insistent  voice. 

The  medium  writhed  in  his  chair,  breathed  hard,  and 
then  slowly  opened  his  eyes  showing  the  whites. 

"They've  left  me,"  he  said  in  a  weak  voice. 

"Who  has  left  you?"  said  I. 

"The  controls." 

"Let  us  try  again,"  I  said. 

"I  don't  feel  well,"  he  murmured. 

"Take  some  sherry  and  water,"  I  said. 

Again  Algernon  jumped. 

"Sherry !    How  did  you  know "    He  stopped. 

I  could  see  by  his  expression  that  he  was  debating 
what  line  to  take  with  me,  whether  to  "stand  up  to  me" 
or  to  try  at  once  to  get  rid  of  me.  He  chose  the  latter 
course. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  no  good  to-night,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
feel  well.  There's  something  wrong.  I'm  afraid  I  must 
ask  you  to  come  another  evening.  As  to  the  fee " 

"There'll  be  no  difficulty  about  that,"  I  interrupted, 
"if  you  answer  a  few  questions  which,  possibly^  the 
spirits  might  not  understand." 

"Questions !"  he  said.  "I'm  not  here  to  answer  ques 
tions." 

"But  I'm  here  to  get  them  answered,"  I  said.  "And 
I  don't  mean  to  go  till  you've  satisfied  my  curiosity  on 
certain  points." 


THE  HINDU  269 

"Who  are  you?"  he  cried. 

"I'm  acting  for  Mr.  Latimer,"  I  replied. 

His  natural  pallor  was  accentuated.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  touch  of  green  in  it  at  that  moment. 

"Mr.  Latimer !"  he  said,  getting  up  and  pressing  his 
flabby  white  hands  on  the  table.  "Are  you  a — a  lawyer  ?" 

"Never  mind  what  I  am.  I'm  here  on  Mr.  Latimer's 
behalf.  You've  had  a  good  deal  of  money  from  him 
recently." 

"He  told  me " 

"I  know.    And  you  took  him  at  his  word." 

"I— I>ve  only  had " 

"Half  of  the  money  sent  by  his  secretary,"  I  inter 
posed.  "Or  perhaps  less  than  half.  The  rest  went  to 
Mr.  Maurice  Isaacs,  the  journalist  who  brought  him  to 
you." 

Algernon  sat  down. 

"Has — has  Isaacs  blabbed  ?"  he  stammered. 

"You'd  better  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,"  I  said. 
"Otherwise  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  yourself  in  very  seri 
ous  trouble.  Mr.  Latimer  isn't  a  man  who  can  be  tricked, 
or  even  defied,  with  impunity." 

"Has  Isaacs " 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Wigston,"  said  I.  "How  could  I 
know  about  this  affair  if  Isaacs  hadn't  talked?" 

That  seemed  to  decide  him.  Suddenly  he  became  shrill 
with  anger  against  Maurice  Isaacs. 

"He  put  me  up  to  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "I've  never  done 
such  a  thing  before.  I'm  an  honest  medium,  I  am.  The 
spirits  use  me.  I've  always  lived  honest.  The  greatest 
people  in  London  have  been  to  me.  I've  had  Royal  peo 
ple  in  this  very  room." 

"But  Isaacs  led  you  astray.  You're  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning,  eh?" 

"That's  it!"  he  cried.  "You've  got  it.  Isaacs  tempted 
me.  That  man's  the  devil  and  a  Jew  rolled  in  one.  He 
come  to  me" — Algernon's  grammar  got  shaky  at  times 
under  the  influence  of  excitement — "and  he  led  me  on; 


870  SNAKE-BITE 

said  how  very  wonderful  I  was  with  miraculous  powers, 
and  how  it  troubled  him  to  see  me  living  so  humble. 
'You  might  be  rollirg/  he  said,  'and  here  you  live  poor 
in  the  midst  of  plent  /.  Look  here/  he  said,  Til  do  you 
a  good  turn  if  you  like.'  And  then  he  goes  and  tells 
me  one  of  the  greatest  and  richest  men  in  London,  the 
biggest  newspaper  owner  of  the  day,  was  coming  with 
him  to  test  me.  'Convince  him  of  your  powers!'  says 
he,  'and  your  fortune's  made.  But  fail  to  and  he'll  ruin 
you,  get  his  knife  into  you  in  every  paper  in  England/ 
I  fell  in  a  sweat.  I  did  indeed.  And  then  he  played 
upon  me.  'Suppose  when  I  bring  him/  he  says,  'the 
spirits  let  you  down?  What  then?'  I  sat  and  just 
sweated.  'Don't  they  ever  let  you  down?'  he  says.  I 
couldn't  but  answer  they  did.  'And  then  you're  ruined/ 
he  says.  'You're  down  and  out.'  'I  won't  see  him/ 
I  says.  'If  you  don't  he'll  go  for  you/  he  says.  'Be 
a  man.  Take  him  on  and  make  your  fortune  out  of  him/ 
Tut  me  in  the  way,  for  God's  sake/  I  says.  And,  to 
cut  it  short,  he  put  me  in  the  way.  He  pitched  me  a 
tale  about  Mr.  Latimer's  wife  and  a  Hindu,  and  how  a 
woman  called  Minnie  Harfield  had  killed  herself  from 
love  of  the  dark  fellow,  and  a  lot  more.  'It's  all  true  and 
he  don't  know  it/  says  he.  'Dribble  it  out  to  him  by  de 
grees.  Start  in  your  own  way  and  presently  get  to  Min 
nie.  Act  according  to  how  he  acts.  We'll  stand  in  to 
gether  with  regard  to  the  cash/  Well,  I  did  as  he  said. 
I  presently  got  to  Minnie,  and  when  he  was  on  the  string 
I  dribbled  it  out  to  him.  Isaacs  taught  me  things  to  say, 
made  me  take  things  out  of  a  book  by  some  Indian  feller, 
called  Tagory." 

"Exactly.    And  you  were  never  in  a  trance  at  all." 

"Not  with  him  I  wasn't,  but " 

"I  know.  And  the  cash?  How  much  has  Isaacs 
taken?" 

Algernon  grew  scarlet  with  rage. 

"Three-quarters  of  everything  I've  had,  if  you'll  be 
lieve  me!"  he  almost  screamed,  lifting  his  puny  little 


THE  HINDU  271 

arms.  "Day  in  and  day  out  he's  been  here.  Write  again 
to  the  seketery,'  he  says.  'You  can  get  what  you  like. 
Put  it  across!'  he  says.  And " 

As  I  had  learnt  enough  at  this  point  I  brought  our 
pleasant  little  interview  to  a  close.  I  must  confess  to  an 
act  of  weakness.  I  gave  Algernon  three  guineas.  It  was 
quite  wrong  of  me,  but Well,  I  was  pleased  with  my 
self  that  night,  and  it  was  my  egoism  which  gave  him  his 
fee.  He  took  it  with  an  air  of  self-respect  which  did 
credit  to  his  ingenuity,  and  I  left  him  to  the  refreshment 
of  his  sherry  bottle. 

On  the  following  day,  again  in  the  evening,  I  paid  a 
visit  to  Mr.  Isaacs.  I  had  taken  the  precaution  of  tele 
phoning  to  him  beforehand,  asking  for  an  appointment, 
giving  my  name  simply  as  Turnbull,  and  stating  that  I 
wished  to  see  him  for  a  very  important  reason.  I  ven 
tured  to  add  that  I  was  a  friend  of  his  employer,  Mr. 
Latimer,  who  had  spoken  very  favourably  of  his  abilities 
to  me.  Apparently  Isaacs  had  no  suspicion  of  a  trap, 
for  a  suave  voice  replied  through  the  telephone  suggest 
ing  an  appointment  at  a  club.  I  answered  that  I  would 
prefer  to  call  at  his  private  address  in  the  Bloomsbury 
district,  if  it  would  not  put  him  to  inconvenience.  After 
a  perceptible  pause  Isaacs  agreed  to  the  suggestion  and 
appointed  the  hour  of  nine  for  our  meeting.  I  was  there 
to  the  minute,  and  rang  the  bell  of  a  flat  on  a  third  floor. 
The  bell  was  answered  almost  instantaneously  by  a  quite 
well-dressed  young  Jew,  with  dark,  crinkly,  and  very- 
thick  hair,  clever  dark  eyes,  good  features  and  an  air  of 
unshakable  self-possession.  I  noticed  at  once  that  he  was 
the  sort  of  man  likely  to  prove  attractive  to  unrefined 
women,  and  to  be  attracted  by  them.  He  was  smart,  and 
in  a  way  handsome ;  he  looked  sensual ;  and  he  knew  not 
the  meaning  of  shyness,  a  quality  which  is  anathema  to 
the  modern  young  woman. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Turnbull  ?"  said  Isaacs,  looking  me  over 
swiftly. 

"My  name  is  Turnbull,"  I  said. 


372  SNAKE-BITE 

He  held  out  a  welcoming  hand. 

"Glad  to  see  you.    Do  come  in." 

"This  is  only  a  bachelor  flat,"  he  remarked,  taking  my 
hat  and  umbrella.  "I  live  here  alone." 

As  he  spoke  I  noticed  his  forehead  wrinkle  in  a  momen 
tary  frown,  as  his  eyes  noted  something  in  the  comfort 
able  sitting-room  beyond  me.  I  walked  in,  he  followed 
me  closely,  and  immediately,  in  a  swift  but  casual  way, 
got  rid  of  a  woman's  long  white  glove  which  was  lying 
on  the  back  of  a  sofa.  At  the  same  time  he  shot  a  search 
ing  glance  at  me,  but  I  was  looking  at  some  caricatures 
of  public  men  which  hung  on  the  wall,  and  I  don't  think 
my  expression  at  the  moment  was  intelligent. 

"Do  sit  down,"  he  said.    "Will  you  have  a  drink?" 

"Thanks.    No;  I've  just  dined." 

We  sat  down,  and  Isaacs  said : 

"Very  sad  about  Mr.  Latimer,  isn't  it?  We  never  see 
him  at  the  office  now.  He  seems  gone  all  to  pieces.  And 
he's  such  a  marvellous  man." 

"He  seems  to  think  very  well  of  you,"  I  said. 

A  gratified  smile  curved  Isaacs's  rather  thick  fips. 

"Glad  to  hear  you  say  so.    You're  a  friend  of  his?" 

"I  hope  at  any  rate  to  prove  myself  so,"  I  answered. 

Isaacs  looked  at  me  narrowly. 

"But  I  thought  you  said  through  the  telephone " 

he  began. 

"I'm  attending  him  as  a  doctor." 

"Oh,  you're  a  doctor !  I  hope  you  don't  think  badly  of 
his  condition?" 

"I  expect  to  see  him  all  right  soon." 

"That's  good  hearing.  And  now — I  think  you  said 
there  was  an  important  matter  you  wished  to  discuss  with 
me  ?"  He  looked  sharply  inquisitive. 

"There  is.  You're  a  very  intelligent  man,  Mr.  Isaacs. 
Mr.  Latimer  told  me  so,  and  I  can  see  it  now  for  myself. 
Why  d'you  allow  women  to  ruin  you?" 

The  change  in  his  face  was  startling.  It  grew  instantly 
harder,  more  common  and  much  more  animal.  The  cheek- 


THE  HINDU  273 

bones  looked  more  prominent,  and  the  lips  stretched  show 
ing  the  large  white  teeth. 

"Women !"  he  said.  "What  d'you  mean  ?  What  d'you 
know  about  me  and  women  ?" 

"I  know  you've  been  playing  a  very  dirty  game  on 
Mr.  Latimer  to  get  money,  and  you  spend  that  money 
with  women.  Come,  come  now,  Mr.  Isaacs,  you  didn't 
hide  that  white  glove  quite  quickly  enough." 

"What's  it  to  you  if  I  choose  to  have  women  friends?" 
he  said  fiercely.  "And  I  haven't  ever  played  dirty  with 
Lat — Mr.  Latimer.  I  work  hard  for  him,  and  he  pays 
me  a  good  screw  for  it.  What  d'you  mean  by  coming 
here  to  interfere  with  my  private  affairs  ?" 

He  got  up. 

"I'll  ask  you  to  go  at  ence !" 

"If  I  do,  I  think  you'll  be  sorry  for  it,"  I  said  quietly. 
"Do  you  want  to  be  indicted  for  conspiracy  and  obtain 
ing  money  by  false  pretences  ?" 

"I  haven't.    What  do  you  mean?" 

His  eyes  pierced  me. 

"Simply  that  Algernon  Wigston's  given  you  away," 
I  said. 

His  jaw  dropped. 

"Wigston — you — Latimer  has " 

He  stopped. 

"Mr.  Latimer  has  told  me  of  your  visits  with  him  to 
Fulham,  and  Wigston  has  informed  me  of  the  fraud  you 
suggested  and  he  carried  out,  and  also  of  the  money 
transactions  between  you." 

"But — but  Latimer — does  he  know  that — that — — ?" 

"I  am  going  to  tell  him  to-morrow." 

Isaacs  dropped  down  into  a  chair. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't.    I  shall  be  ruined." 

"No  doubt." 

"It  wasn't  my  fault.    It's  the  women." 

"They  are  an  expensive  luxury,  I  know,  especially 
nowadays  when  they  all  wear  silk  stockings." 

"They  bleed  a  man  white.    Don't  tell  Latimer." 


274  SNAKE-BITE 

"I  shall,"  I  said.  "But  on  one  condition  I'll  undertake, 
before  I  tell  him,  to  get  from  him  a  promise  not  to 
proceed  against  you  and  ruin  you  publicly." 

"But  he  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  Isaacs,  sharply  and 
swiftly. 

"Why  not?    Because  of  his  wife?" 

"Well,  he  wouldn't." 

"He  will.  I'll  take  care  he  does,  unless  you  make  a 
clean  breast  of  the  whole  story  of  Minnie  Harfield  and 
the  Hindu.  And  be  careful  to  stick  to  the  truth.  I  am 
going  to  check  your  story.  Tell  me  the  whole  truth  and 
I'll  undertake  that  Mr.  Latimer  shall  let  you  alone.  Of 
course  you'll  have  to  leave  his  employment.  You'll  have 
to  resign  from  his  staff." 

Isaacs  looked  very  blank. 

"If  you  d~on't  he'll  kick  you  out,  of  course,"  I  said; 
"I  can't  undertake  to  prevent  that.  You  can  choose. 
Either " 

"Who  are  you?"  he  interrupted.  "What  right  have 
you,  a  mere  ordinary  doctor ?" 

"I'm  Sir  William  Turnbull  of  Cavendish  Square,"  I 
interrupted. 

"What,  the  great  nerve  man !"  he  was  good  enough  to 
exclaim. 

"Yes.  Mr.  Latimer  has  put  himself  entirely  in  my 
hands.  He  will  do  exactly  what  I  tell  him  to  do  in  this 
matter.  That  I  can  promise  you.  Your  future  lies  with 
me,  Mr.  Isaacs,  whether  you  like  it  or  not.  I  advise  you 
to  tell  me  the  truth." 

Well,  he  told  it  to  me.  It  seems  that  Minnie  Harfield 
was  at  one  time  a  friend  of  his,  that  he  introduced  to 
her  Nischaya,  the  Hindu,  whom  he  had  met  at  one  of 
Mrs.  Sidon's  lectures,  and  that  she  did  eventually  com 
mit  suicide  on  the  Hindu's  account.  So  far  the  medium 
had  related  facts. 

"And  as  to  Mrs.  Latimer's  connection  with  the  story?" 

I  had  to  press  Isaacs  on  that  point.  He  was  suspicious, 
and  wanted  to  know  whether  Mrs.  Latimer  had  been 


THE  HINDU  275 

approached  by  me,  whether  she  knew  of  her  husband's 
visits  to  the  medium.  I  declined  to  satisfy  his  curiosity, 
but  left  him  with  the  impression  that  possibly  I  had  taken 
her  into  my  confidence. 

"She  did  know  Nischaya,"  he  said. 

"I'm  aware  of  that,"  I  said  blandly. 

"Why  d'you  ask  me  then?" 

I  didn't  think  it  necessary  to  inform  him  that  I  was 
aware  of  it  because  he  had  just  told  it  to  me. 

"Mrs.  Latimer  knew  Nischaya,  but  why  did  you  put 
such  shameful  lies  about  her  into  the  medium's  mouth?" 

"How  d'you  know  they're  lies?" 

"Never  mind.    But  I  do  know." 

At  that  moment  I  was  merely  guessing,  but  my  guess, 
it  seemed,  was  right.  For,  after  a  pause,  Isaacs  an 
swered  : 

"She  tried  to  do  me  a  bad  turn." 

"But  she  didn't  know  you." 

"No;  but  she  knew  my  work.  And  she  hated  it.  She 
thought  it  beastly  vulgar.  And  she  said  so  more  than 


once." 


To  whom?" 

"To  Latimer.  She  wanted  him  to  get  rid  of  me.  He 
didn't  tell  me,  but  I  got  to  know  of  it  through  one  of  the 
editors  to  whom  he  repeated  it." 

"That  was  a  very  poor  reason  for  trying  to  ruin  her 
reputation." 

"Oh,"  he  said  coarsely,  "it  wasn't  so  much  that.  I 
knew  the  way  to  get  him  on  the  string  was  to  bring  in  her 


name." 


That  same  evening  I  drove  straight  to  Portman  Square, 
sent  in  my  card,  and  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Latimer.  She 
was  at  home,  and  I  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  she  was  reading  by  a  shaded  electric  lamp.  She 
got  up  quickly  when  I  entered,  and  came  towards  me. 

"Sir  William  Turnbull !"  she  said.    "He  isn't  worse  ?" 

As  the  footman  went  out  and  shut  the  door  she  added : 

"He— he's  not  going  mad?" 


276  SNAKE-BITE 

I  took  her  thin  hand. 

"Of  course  not,"  I  said  cheerily. 

"But  what  is  the  matter  with  him?  Sometimes  he 
frightens  me." 

"His  nerves  have  broken  down  through  long  over 
work.  But  I  shall  get  him  right.  And  you  can  help 
me!" 

"How  ?"  she  said  eagerly. 

"May  I  sit  down?" 

"Oh— please  do." 

I  was  with  her  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  I  laid  the 
whole  matter  before  her.  Latimer  hadn't  given  me  leave 
to  do  so,  but  that  didn't  bother  me.  I  was  out  to  cure 
him,  and  knew  the  best  way  to  do  it.  She  was  very 
indignant  at  one  point  of  the  story,  and  was  evidently 
deeply  hurt  by  her  husband's  injurious  suspicions. 

"How  could  he  believe  such  a  thing,  and  about  a  Hindu, 
a  man  whom  I  scarcely  knew  ?"  she  said.  "A  man  whom 
I  only  met  two  or  three  times,  and  always  in  public?" 

She  got  up.  She  was  naturally  a  highly  strung  woman, 
and  she  was  quivering  with  nervous  excitement. 

"Let  me  tell  you  a  little  about  the  nervous  system  and 
about  the  power  of  suggestion,"  I  said. 

And  I  gave  her  a  short  lecture,  which  I  needn't  re 
peat  to  you,  on  the  tricks  nerves  can  play  on  a  man,  and 
on  the  cruel  powers  of  neurasthenia.  When  I  left  her 
that  night  I  think  she  had  almost  forgiven  her  husband. 
Certainly  she  loved  him  very  much. 

When  the  six  weeks  of  Latimer's  rest  cure  were  just 
up — it  was,  in  fact,  his  last  night  in  the  house  at  Hamp- 
stead — I  sat  down  beside  his  bed,  and  I  told  him  all  that 
had  happened  while  he  had  been  secluded.  I  never  saw  a 
man  by  turns  so  indignant,  so  ashamed,  and  so  relieved. 
He  was  furious  at  having  been  taken  in,  bitterly  ashamed 
at  having  suspected  his  wife  and  at  having  been  duped 
by  a  couple  of  rogues,  and  immensely  relieved  at  real 
ising  that  he  had  certainly  never  been  in  communication 
with  the  denizen  of  another , world.  As  we  talked  I  saw 


THE  HINDU  277 

his  fear  of  the  Hindu  die  away.  But  presently  anxiety 
again  shone  in  his  eyes,  and  he  exclaimed : 

"But,  doctor,  surely  I  must  have  been  mad.  I  saw 
the  Hindu  again  and  again.  How  do  you  account  for 
that?" 

"I  believe  that  in  Grosvenor  Square  you  really  met  an 
Indian  who  was  out  for  a  stroll  like  yourself.  The  en 
counter  was  entirely  fortuitous.  It  only  made  such  a 
deep  impression  upon  you  because  of  what  had  just  hap 
pened  at  the  medium's.  At  the  Indian  Restaurant  I  be 
lieve  you  saw  the  same  man,  and  that  he  left  the  place 
at  a  moment  when  your  attention  was  distracted,  al 
though  you  thought  that  your  watchfulness  never  ceased. 
No  doubt  you  saw  a  living  Indian,  though  perhaps  not 
the  same  one,  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre." 

"But  my  wife  didn't  see  him !" 

"Merely  because  she  had  not  really  turned  her  glasses 
upon  him,  though  you  fancied  she  had." 

^  "But  at  Marseilles!" 

"On  that  occasion  I  think  you  were  the  victim  of  your 
nervous  system  and  of  auto-suggestion.  It  is  possible 
that  a  dark  man  passed  you  and  went  up  in  the  lift." 

"But  the  attendant  denied  it!" 

"Probably  he  had  made  two  journeys  up  and  down 
while  you  were  at  the  bureau,  instead  of  one,  as  you  be 
lieved,  and  on  the  second  of  these  journeys  he  had  really 
gone  up  alone." 

"That's  possible!"  said  Latimer. 

"At  Hammam  Meskoutine  you  saw  a  native  whom  you 
mistook  for  the  Hindu.  At  Tunis  the  same  thing  oc 
curred.  But — mind — I  do  not  exclude  the  possibility  of 
your  having  sometimes  imagined  that  you  saw  a  figure, 
an  appearance,  before  you  when  in  fact  there  was  noth 
ing.  You  have  overworked  for  years.  There  are  heavy 
penalties  attached  to  such  folly." 

"But  you  really  don't  think  I'm  mad  ?" 

I  smiled. 

"I  may  possibly  come  to  think  you  are  if,  when  you 


278  SNAKE-BITE 

go  out  again  into  the  world,  you  continue  to  meet  with 
the  Hindu,"  I  answered.    "But  I  don't  think  you  will." 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  from  that  night  to  this  Latimer 

has  never  set  eyes  on  the  Hindu. 

****** 

Sir  William  Turnbull  paused. 

"What  about  Isaacs?"  I  said. 

"He  cleared  out  without  waiting  for  Latimer's  ap 
pearance  at  the  office." 

"And— Mrs.  Latimer?"  I  hazarded. 

"She  and  her  husband  seem  quite  happy  together  again. 
She  still  reads  Mrs.  Sidon's  pamphlets.  Some  people  say 
that  Latimer  is  completely  dominated  by  her  now,  that 
she  rules  him  in  everything." 

"And — you?    What  do  you  say?" 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  smiling.  "It's  generally  very 
dangerous  for  a  man  to  be  forgiven  by  a  woman.  Women 
forgive  and — remember." 


FOUR:  THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES 

I  AM  very  fond  of  moving  about  and  seeing  fresh  places, 
but  I  hate  the  tedium  of  railway  travelling.  On  a  misty 
night,  therefore,  when  I  stepped  into  the  Paris  express 
to  go  to  Rome,  I  anticipated  a  long  and  weary  journey, 
and  was  in  no  very  cheerful  mood.  I  had  engaged  a 
berth  in  the  sleeping-car,  and  had  stipulated  that  it  must 
be  in  a  compartment  that  held  only  two,  and  I  had  some 
hopes  of  having  the  compartment  to  myself.  But  when 
I  came  into  it  these  hopes  were  at  once  dispelled.  The 
beds  had  not  yet  been  made,  and  on  the  long  plush-cov 
ered  seat  a  traveller  was  already  established,  calmly  smok 
ing  a  big  cigar.  As  I  came  in  he  bowed  slightly  and  cast 
an  inquiring  glance  upon  me.  I  returned  his  salutation 
and  his  glance,  arranged  my  things  as  conveniently  as 
possible  in  the  small  space  allotted  to  us,  replaced  my  hat 
by  a  cap,  and  sat  down  beside  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  train  glided  out  of  the  Gare  de 
Lyon,  and  the  attendant  came  to  ask  if  he  should  make 
our  beds.  I  glanced  at  my  companion  and  he  at  me. 

"You  wish "  he  began. 

"No!"  I  said;  "I'm  in  no  hurry.  I  couldn't  sleep  so 
early." 

"Nor  I.    Shall  we  say  in  another  hour,  then  ?" 

"Certainly." 

I  told  the  attendant,  and  we  were  left  alone. 

Then  I  lit  a  cigar  and  looked  for  something  to  read. 
I  had  with  me  a  book  which  I  had  bought  at  Victoria, 
called  "Real  Ghost  Stories,"  and  some  papers.  The 
book  I  lifted  up,  then  laid  down  again  between  me  and 

279 


280  SNAKE-BITE 

my  companion.  I  thought  I  would  glance  through  the 
French  papers  before  I  attacked  anything  else.  The 
papers  were  full  of  news  of  an  upheaval  in  Russia — sad, 
even  horrible,  reading.  Presently  I  had  had  enough, 
and,  turning  to  get  my  book,  I  met  my  companion's 
eyes. 

"Terrible,  this  Russian  business,  isn't  it?"  I  said. 

"Frightful.    I  wonder  how  it  will  end." 

We  fell  into  a  desultory  conversation.  My  companion, 
a  man  of  about  forty,  English,  but  an  Englishman  of  the 
cosmopolitan  species,  was  agreeable  and  interesting.  Now 
and  then  he  showed  a  gleam  of  imagination  which  at 
tracted  me.  I  began  to  be  glad  that  I  was  not  going  to 
be  alone  on  the  journey.  After  some  talk  about  Russia, 
he  said : 

"I  see  you've  got  a  book  about  ghosts  with  you." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  haven't  read  much  of  it  yet.  Stead 
brought  it  out.  Perhaps  such  a  book  would  bore  you." 

"Not  necessarily." 

"In  it,  I  see,  he  says  something  to  the  effect  that  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  be  in  a  company  of  people  not  one 
of  whom  has  seen  a  ghost,  or  had  some  ghostly  experi 
ence.  I  wonder  if  that  is  so." 

"I  don't  know.  It  may  be.  It  would  be  if  I  were  one 
of  the  company — at  least,  I  believe  so." 

"Then  you  have  had  such  experience?" 

"Well,  I  think  so.  And,  oddly  enough,  it  had — or  so 
I  must  believe — some  connection  with  Russia." 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  it  to  me." 

"I  will  with  pleasure.  But,  if  it  is  to  be  interesting, 
my  narrative  must  be  rather  detailed  and  long." 

"Capital.  I  must  tell  you  I'm  a  writer,  so  perhaps  I 
shall  be  the  better  able  to  appreciate  your  story." 

"Use  it,  if  you  think  it's  worth  using.  By  the  way,  are 
you  bound  for  Rome  ?" 

"Yes." 

"So  am  I.  And  it  was  in  Rome  that  these  circum 
stances  took  place." 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  281 

"So  much  the  better !" 

He  smiled.  Then,  as  the  train  rushed  on  through  the 
night  towards  the  frontier,  he  told  me  very  quietly  this 
tale  of  the  lighted  candles. 

"Although  I  do  not  claim  to  be  unusually  brave,"  he 
said,  "I  have  a  peculiar  dislike,  I  may  almost  call  it  a 
peculiar  dread,  of  a  coward.  If  I  may  say  so,  it  amounts 
to  this — I  fear  fear.  Nothing  irritates  and  distresses  my 
nerves  so  much  as  the  sight  of  an  exhibition  of  terror. 
Nothing  makes  me  so  uneasy  as  the  proximity  of  a  fearful 
being. 

"Well,  three  years  ago  I  went  to  Rome  in  the  autumn 
with  the  intention  of  settling  down  there  for  the  winter. 
I  wished  to  be  quiet  and  my  own  master,  so  I  resolved 
to  take  an  apartment  instead  of  going  to  a  hotel,  and  as 
soon  as  I  arrived  I  intended  to  visit  an  agent  and  to 
make  inquiries  as  to  where  I  could  find  a  suitable  one. 

"I  arrived  in  Rome  early  in  the  morning,  and  scarcely 
had  I  got  out  of  the  train  before  a  porter  came  up  and 
asked  me  if  I  were  going  to  a  hotel  or  if  I  wanted  an 
apartment. 

"Perhaps  you  know  that  a  good  many  of  the  porters  in 
Rome  act  as  touts  for  flat-owners,  and  get  a  commission 
upon  any  business  done  through  their  means. 

"I  told  the  man  that  I  did  want  a  furnished  apartment, 
and  he  begged  me  to  come  at  once  with  him  and  see  the 
one  he  had  mentioned.  He  described  it  as  bellissimo  and 
stupendo,  and  was  so  persuasive  that  I  got  into  a  cab  with 
him  and  went  to  look  at  it. 

"Before  I  arrived  in  Rome  I  had  had  some  idea  of 
settling  in  one  of  the  old  quarters,  of  trying  to  find  some 
thing  in  the  Via  Giulia,  perhaps,  or  the  Via  delle  Botte- 
ghe  Oscure,  something  with  a  touch  of  romance  about 
it,  or  a  hint  of  mystery.  But  when  I  saw  the  porter's 
flat  it  suited  me  in  many  respects  so  well  that  I  decided 
to  go  into  it  at  once. 

"It  was  a  modern  apartment  on  the  third  floor  of  a 
good-sized  house,  looking  out  upon  an  open  space  which 


282  SNAKE-BITE 

was  rented  by  a  man  who  gave  lessons  in  bicycling.  As 
it  had  no  houses  opposite  to  it,  and  faced  south,  it  got 
plenty  of  sun,  and  was  extremely  cheerful.  It  was  also 
well  furnished,  and  contained  as  many  rooms  as  I  re 
quired.  The  rent  was  remarkably  reasonable,  and  before 
the  morning  was  over  I  had  taken  the  flat  for  three 
months  from  its  owner,  an  Italian  woman,  who  kept  a 
tobacconist's  shop. 

"That  very  night  I  was  installed  in  it.  Now  I  must 
just  describe  it  to  you. 

"When  you  entered  the  flat  you  found  yourself  in  a 
hall  with  chairs  and  an  oaken  settle.  On  the  right  of  this 
hall  were  three  rooms — my  bedroom  and  dressing-room 
and  the  dining-room.  These  rooms  looked  out  on  to  the 
open  space  I  have  already  alluded  to.  Opposite  to  the 
dining-room,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall,  was  the  draw 
ing-room,  which  was  rather  dark,  and  had  a  window  look 
ing  on  to  a  small  garden  surrounded  by  the  backs  of 
houses.  Parallel  with  this  drawing-room  was  a  narrow 
passage  which  led  to  a  kitchen  on  the  left,  and  which 
ended  in  a  servant's  bedroom.  Both  of  these  looked  out 
on  to  the  backs  of  the  houses  surrounding  the  little  gar 
den,  and  from  their  windows  one  could  see  the  windows 
of  the  staircase  of  the  house  in  which  my  flat  was.  This 
section  of  my  flat,  in  fact,  jutted  out  at  right  angles  to 
that  part  of  the  house  which  contained  the  staircase,  and 
was  commanded  by  the  staircase  windows.  I  hope  I 
make  myself  clear?" 

"Quite,"  I  answered. 

"There  was  also  a  bathroom  at  the  end  of  the  hall  be 
tween  the  drawing-room  and  the  dining-room. 

"I  intended  to  engage  a  woman  to  act  as  my  cook  and 
housekeeper  and  a  man  to  open  the  door  and  valet  me. 
But  on  the  first  evening  I  was  alone.  The  Padrona  came 
in  to  make  my  bed  and  see  that  I  had  candles,  matches, 
and  the  few  things  absolutely  necessary.  Then  she  with 
drew  with  a  buona  sera,  and  a  hope  that  I  should  be  com 
fortable.  She  was  a  large  and  oily  Neapolitan,  and  as 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  283 

she  uttered  her  final  remark  I  thought  her  bulging  black 
eyes  rested  upon  me  with  a  rather  peculiar  expression, 
half -searching,  half-defiant. 

"When  she  was  gone  I  went  again  over  the  flat.  In 
the  servant's  room,  upon  a  table  under  the  window,  stood 
a  candle  and  a  box  of  matches.  The  candle  was  new 
and  had  never  been  lighted.  Why  I  did  it  I  don't  know, 
but  I  remember  putting  a  match  to  it  idly,  holding  it  up, 
glancing  round  the  room,  then  setting  it  down  again  upon 
the  table,  and — I  believe — extinguishing  it. 

"Night  had  closed  in,  and*I  presently  went  out,  dined 
at  a  restaurant,  looked  in  at  a  theatre,  and  returned  home. 
It  was  late  when  I  reached  the  front  door  of  the  house 
and  let  myself  in  with  one  of  my  two  latchkeys.  I  was 
at  once  confronted  by  the  blackness  of  the  stone  stair 
case.  All  the  lights  were  out,  and  I  had  not  taken  the 
precaution  of  providing  myself  with  a  candle  end  to 
illuminate  my  progress  to  the  third  storey. 

"I  struck  a  match  and  began  to  go  up  as  quickly 
as  I  could.  Before  I  got  to  the  first  floor  the  match  had 
gone  out,  and  I  made  some  groping  steps  in  the  darkness. 
Then  I  struck  a  second  match,  which  lighted  me  to  the 
second  floor.  There  it  sputtered  and  died  down,  and  I 
stood  still  for  a  moment  fumbling  for  a  third  match. 
But  there  was  not  one.  I  had  been  smoking  a  good  deal 
during  the  evening  and  had  exhausted  my  supply. 

"Diavolo!"  I  thought. 

"Then  I  remembered  that  there  was  a  box  full  on  the 
little  table  in  the  hall,  and  I  moved  on  cautiously,  feeling 
my  way,  until  I  reached  the  staircase  window,  which 
looked  out  upon  the  windows  of  my  kitchen  and  the  un 
occupied  servant's  bedroom.  In  the  latter  there  shone  a 
light. 

"I  stood  still.    I  was  greatly  astonished. 

"Over  the  window  a  thin  white  blind  hung  down, 
through  which  the  light  was  visible.  For  some  short 
time — two  or  three  minutes  I  suppose — I  stood  on  the 
staircase  watching  it.  Who  could  be  there,  in  my  flat, 


284  SNAKE-BITE 

at  this  time  of  the  night?  Had  the  Padrona  returned 
to  seek  something?  Or  had  some  malefactor — I  drew 
out  my  revolver,  cocked  it,  crept  up  the  stairs,  and  very 
quietly  inserted  my  key  in  the  door,  after  some  groping, 
as  I  was  without  a  light.  The  door  opened,  I  stepped  into 
the  hall  and  felt  for  the  matches,  all  the  time  straining 
my  ears  to  catch  the  smallest  sound.  I  found  a  match, 
struck  it,  and  set  it  to  the  candle.  Then,  leaving  the 
front  door  open,  I  went  on  tiptoe  to  the  entrance  of  the 
passage,  at  the  end  of  which  was  the  door  of  the  servant's 
bedroom.  It  stood  open,  and  I  saw  the  bed  and  the  wall 
illuminated  by  the  light  within.  I  waited,  listening  in 
tently.  I  heard  nothing.  Then  I  walked  swiftly  into 
the  room.  It  was  empty.  On  the  table  under  the  window 
stood  a  lighted  candle  burned  down  almost  to  the  socket. 
I  took  it  up  and  went  from  room  to  room.  The  flat  was 
empty.  Nothing  had  been  disturbed. 

"When  I  had  finished  searching  I  shut  the  front  door, 
barred  it  for  the  night,  and  went  to  bed. 

"The  explanation  of  the  candle  being  lighted  must  be 
a  simple  one.  That  was  what  I  was  telling  myself.  I 
must  have  forgotten  to  extinguish  it.  I  remembered 
lighting  the  candle.  I  remembered  extinguishing  it.  So 
my  mind  told  me.  But  my  mind  must  have  been  playing 
me  false.  I  must  have  left  the  candle  burning.  And 
yet  I  could  have  sworn — but  then  we  often  could,  couldn't 
we?" 

I  nodded. 

"Telling  myself  this,  giving  my  own  memory  the  lie, 
as  it  were,  I  turned  over  and  soon  fell  asleep. 

"In  the  morning  I  went  forth  early  to  an  agency  and 
engaged  a  cook,  a  charming  woman  called  Lucia,  a  native 
of  Albano.  She  agreed  to  begin  her  duties  with  me  that 
very  day.  This  done,  I  paid  a  visit  to  my  Padrona  di 
casa.  I  had  a  question  to  ask  her. 

"  'I  suppose  there  is  no  other  latchkey  to  my  flat  be 
sides  mine?'  I  said  to  her.  'You  haven't  one  you  could 
lend  me  for  my  servant?' 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  285 

"  'No,  signore,  I  have  only  the  one/ 

"  Til  have  another  made/  I  said  carelessly. 

"I  had  been  thinking  of  the  lighted  candle  of  the  pre 
ceding  night,  and  had  wished  to  find  out  whether  the 
Padrona  had  means  of  access  to  my  flat.  It  seemed  not. 
Evidently,  therefore,  my  memory  had  been  at  fault. 

"I  went  to  get  another  latchkey  made  for  my  cook, 
and  dismissed  the  matter  of  the  lighted  candle  from  my 
mind — for  the  time. 

"Lucia  was  married,  and  lived  with  her  husband  not 
far  from  me,  so  till  I  engaged  a  man-servant  I  was  alone 
in  my  flat  at  night. 

"I  dined  at  home  that  evening,  and  stayed  in  till  Lucia 
had  gone  away  for  the  night.  When  the  front  door  had 
closed  upon  her,  I  went  down  the  passage  to  the  servant's 
room.  The  candlestick  had  been  moved,  no  doubt  by 
Lucia,  and  placed  on  a  little  stand  beside  the  bed,  with  a 
fresh  candle  in  it  and  the  box  of  matches  laid  near  by. 
Wooden  shutters  had  been  fastened  over  the  windows.  I 
had  not  noticed  them  before.  I  glanced  round  the  room. 
Then  I  went  out. 

"I  spent  the  evening  at  the  Salone  Margherita,  reading 
the  Tribuna,  and  listening  to  a  variety  entertainment. 
When  I  got  home  it  was  about  ten  minutes  to  twelve. 
This  time  I  had  provided  myself  with  a  candle-end  to 
light  me  up  the  staircase,  and  I  reached  my  door  with 
out  difficulty,  let  myself  in,  lit  my  candle,  barred  the  door 
and  went  at  once  into  my  bedroom.  There  I  began  to 
undress. 

"Now,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  not  at  all  a  nervous  or 
suspicious  man.  I  have  been  about  the  world  and  slept 
soundly  in  many  strange  places.  Yet  that  night,  when 
I  was  about  to  get  into  bed,  I  felt  an  odd  uneasiness  come 
over  me,  as  if  I  had  left  something  undone,  something 
that  imperatively  ought  to  be  done.  I  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  in  my  pyjamas  by  the  dressing-table.  What  was  it 
that  I  had  forgotten  to  do? 

"After  a  moment's  hesitation  I  opened  my  bedroom 


286  SNAKE-BITE 

door  and  looked  out  into  the  hall  towards  the  place  where 
the  passage  began.  A  faint  light  issued  from  it.  Leav 
ing  my  candle  in  the  bedroom,  I  went  on  my  stockinged 
feet  to  the  passage  and  stared  down  it.  Beside  the  empty 
bed  the  candle  was  burning,  the  candle  which,  to-night, 
I  had  left  unlighted. 

"Again  I  went  into  the  room  and  found  no  one.  Again 
I  went  over  the  flat  and  found  everything  in  its  place,  no 
sign  of  any  intruder. 

"This  time  I  felt  really  uncomfortable.  It  was  now 
obvious  to  me  that  someone,  some  stranger  hidden  I 
knew  not  where  in  Rome,  possessed  a  key  of  my  door, 
and,  for  some  reason  which  I  could  not  divine,  visited 
my  flat  at  night  when  I  was  out  of  the  way.  What  could 
be  this  person's  purpose?  And  why  should  so  furtive  a 
creature  be  so  careless  as  to  leave  a  lighted  candle  to  tell 
me  of  his,  or  her,  nocturnal  entry  ?  I  now  felt  quite  cer 
tain  that  it  was  not  I  who  had  left  the  candle  lit  on  the 
previous  night.  My  memory  had  not  betrayed  me.  For 
a  long  time  I  stood  wondering  uneasily,  and  when  I 
at  length  got  into  bed  I  could  not  sleep. 

"I  thought  again  of  the  Padrona,  that  Neapolitan 
woman  with  the  searching  eyes.  But  she  denied  having 
a  key  of  my  door.  And  if  she  had  one,  why  should  she 
come  at  night?  I  wondered  who  had  been  my  predeces 
sor  in  the  flat.  Whoever  it  was  might  have  carried  away 
a  latchkey  on  leaving,  might  have  it  still,  or  might  have 
lost  it.  It  might  have  passed  into  other  hands.  All  my 
sense  of  comfort,  of  being  at  home  in  the  flat,  was  rapidly 
departing. 

"Only  towards  morning  did  I  fall  asleep. 

"The  next  day  I  again  called  on  the  Padrona  on  some 
pretext,  and  in  the  course  of  my  conversation  carelessly 
asked  to  whom  the  flat  had  been  let  before  I  took  it.  The 
;woman  suddenly  looked  glum. 

"  'To  a  Russian/  she  answered,  after  a  pause. 

"'A  man?' 

"  'No,  signore.    The  Princess  Andrakov.' 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  287 

"'And  she  has  left  Rome?' 

"  The  Princess  is  dead,  signore.' 

"She  shut  her  loose-lipped  mouth  with  a  snap.  Some 
body  came  into  the  shop,  and  I  went  away. 

"  'The  Princess  Andrakov.'  As  I  went  out  into  the 
sunshine  I  was  mentally  repeating  that  name  and  wonder 
ing — idly,  I  thought — what  the  princess  had  been  like. 

"It  was  a  glorious  day,  and  I  strolled  on  till  I  reached 
the  church  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  at  the  top  of  the  steps 
that  lead  from  the  Piazza,  di  Spagna  to  the  Trinita  de' 
Monte.  There  I  paused  for  a  moment  and  glanced  down. 

"A  peculiar-looking  man,  young,  perhaps  twenty-five 
years  old,  was  coming  up  from  the  Piazza.  He  was  tall, 
fair,  with  a  broad  face,  a  flat  nose,  very  prominent  cheek 
bones,  and  long  frizzly  light  hair.  He  was  dressed  in 
frayed  trousers,  an  old  green  overcoat,  and  a  soft  and 
dusty  black  hat.  I  thought  he  looked  like  a  Russian 
student.  When  he  reached  the  top  of  the  steps  he 
stopped  for  an  instant  beside  me,  then  walked  on  towards 
the  Pincio.  I  followed — I  don't  know  why.  Simply,  I 
had  to  go  somewhere,  and  on  a  fine  morning  what  can  one 
do  better  than  walk  towards  the  Pincio?  Just  in  front 
of  the  Villa  Medici  the  young  man  stopped  to  look  at  the 
view  over  Rome.  I  stopped,  too,  drawn  to  stillness  by 
the  splendour  of  the  city  lying  beneath  the  splendour  of 
the  clear  sky. 

"And  then — I  don't  know  how — we  were  talking.  I 
and  this  young  man,  talking  in  French,  and  soon  with  a 
freedom  that  was  almost  like  intimacy. 

"He  was,  I  found,  a  Russian,  and  an  art  student  We 
spoke  of  art,  of  Rome  and  its  wonders,  of — I  have  really 
forgotten  what  else.  But  I  know  that  presently,  when 
we  were  going  to  part,  the  young  man  handed  me  his 
card,  in  foreign  fashion,  and  I  gave  him  mine,  with  my 
Roman  address  written  on  it.  He  glanced  at  it,  then 
started,  and  stared  at  me  rather  oddly. 

"  'Have  I  given  you — what  is  it?'  I  asked. 


288  SNAKE-BITE 

"  'Nothing,  only — you  are  living  in  a  house  in  which 
I  had  once  an — an  acquaintance.* 

"The  Princess  Andrakov?'  I  asked. 

"  'Yes.    Did  you  know  her,  monsieur  ?' 

"  'No;  but  I  have  the  flat  she  formerly  occupied.' 

"The  young  man  looked  at  me,  I  thought,  with  great 
attention. 

"  'She  is  dead,  I  understand/  I  continued. 

"  'Oh,  yes,  she  is  dead.' 

"'Did  she  die  in  Rome?' 

"  'Yes,  monsieur.' 

"  'Did  she  die  in  the  flat?' 

"  'Yes,  monsieur/ 

"  'I  wonder' — I  was  thinking  now  of  the  lighted  can 
dles — 'I  wonder  whether  she  was  a  careless  person,'  I 
said,  trying  to  speak  carelessly. 

"  'Careless,  monsieur?' 

"  'Yes.' 

"  'Have  you  any  particular  reason  for  asking  me  that 
question,  monsieur?' 

"I  hesitated.  This  young  man  was  an  absolute  strang 
er  to  me,  and  I  am  not,  as  a  rule,  accustomed  to  take 
strangers  into  my  confidence.  But  there  was  something 
in  the  look  of  his  large,  light  eyes  which  told  me  I 
might  go  on.  And  I  did.  I  related  to  him  what  I  have 
related  to  you — the  episode  of  the  lighted  candles. 

"When  I  had  finished,  I  said : 

"  'What  I  am  wondering  is  this :  whether  my  prede 
cessor  in  the  flat  lost  her  latchkey,  or  gave  it  to  one  of 
the  servants.' 

"  The  Princess  had  no  servants,'  he  said. 

"'No  servants?' 

"  'No,  she  was  a  very  peculiar  person/ 

"'Indeed?' 

"  *Yes,  a  very  suspicious  nature.  She  was  afraid  to 
have  servants  in  Rome/ 

"'Why?' 

"  'She  was  afraid  they  might  be  got  at/ 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  289 

"He  used  a  French  expression  equivalent  to  that 
phrase  of  ours. 

"'By  thieves?'  I  asked. 

"  'Well — no.  It  is  a  disagreeable  story,  but  the  prin 
cess  is  dead,  and ' 

"He  hesitated. 

"  'I  knew  her  in  Russia/  he  said  at  last.  'Her  hus 
band  was  an  important  man,  a  general,  at  one  time  a 
Governor  of  a  province  in  Southern  Russia.  There  had 
been  some  trouble  there,  and  he  was  sent  to  stamp  it 
out.  His  methods  of  stamping  out  trouble  were  not 
appreciated  either  by  the  peasants  or  by  the  revolution 
aries.  He  was  hated,  but  the  princess  was  more  than 
hated;  she  was  execrated.' 

"  'Why?' 

"  'She  was  an  aristocrat  of  the  hardest,  most  reac 
tionary  type.  She  egged  her  husband  on  to  excesses. 
There  is  no  doubt  of  that.  She  openly  boasted  of  it. 
He  would  not  have  done  half  of  what  he  did  if  it  had 
not  been  for  her.  He  was  the  Governor  of  a  province, 
but  she  was  his  governor.  Everybody  knew  it.  The 
end  of  it  was  that  one  day  at  a  railway  station  he  was 
assassinated  by  a  young  girl/ 

"  'Horrible/ 

"  'The  girl  disappeared,  perhaps  to  Siberia.  The  prin 
cess  disappeared — to  Rome/ 

"'Was  she  afraid?' 

"  'Terrified.  I  must  tell  you  that  she  was  an  old 
woman,  a  skinny,  coquettish  old  woman,  years  older  than 
her  husband.  And,  as  I  believe  sometimes  happens  with 
people  of  advanced  age,  her  nerves,  which  had  seemed  to 
be  of  iron,  suddenly  snapped.  In  one  day  she  was 
changed  from  a  cruel  tyrant  into  a  cringing,  terror- 
stricken  coward.  That  day  was  the  day  of  her  husband's 
murder.  {For  she,  too,  had  been  condemned,  and  she 
knew  it/ 

'That  was  why  she  left  Russia?' 

"  'Yes,  she  fled.     She  came  to  Rome  and  took  your 


290  SNAKE-BITE 

flat  under  an  assumed  name.  For  though  she  was  a 
princess,  her  real  name  was  not  Andrakov.  In  Rome  her 
fear  grew  upon  her.  She  believed  she  had  been  dogged. 
She  ceased  to  go  out.  She  kept  no  servants  for  fear  they 
might  be  bribed  by  those  who  had  vowed  to  destroy  her. 
The  porter's  wife  brought  up  her  food,  and  she  received 
it  at  the  front  door.  She  lived  in  a  room  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  for  fear  she  might  be  seen  and  recognised 
from  the  street  if  she  went  near  to  the  front  windows. 
And  finally  she  died  of  sheer  terror  in  that  back  room. 
A  warning  had  been  thrust  into  her  letter-box  telling  her 
that  her  place  of  retreat  was  known.' 

"  'Then  she  died  in  the  room  where  the  candles  are 
lighted?'  I  asked. 

"  'A  back  bedroom,  the  only  one.' 

"  'Yes;  but,  excuse  me,  monsieur,  how  do  you  know  all 
this?' 

"  'Oddly  enough,  the  Princess  had  shown  me  and  my 
family  kindness,  monsieur.  She  was  fond  of  my  mother, 
who  had  been  a  reader  to  her. (She  was  a  very  intellectual 
woman. )  And  she  partly  paid  for  my  studies  in  Rome.  I 
ought  to  be  grateful  to  her,  and  so  I  am.  But  even  my 
gratitude  could  never  make  me  feel  any  affection  for  her. 
Three  or  four  times  I  was  admitted  to  see  her  in  the 
flat.  But  towards  the  end  she  became  afraid  even  of 
me.  She  was  found  dead  in  that  back  bedroom,  with  an 
expression  of  abject  terror  on  her  face  and  a  gutter 
ing  candle  beside  her.  They  broke  into  the  flat  as  she 
did  not  answer  the  door  when  the  porter's  wife  brought 
her  food.  It  seems  she  had  only  just  died.  But  for  more 
than  twenty-four  hours  she  had  not  answered  the  door/ 

"Such  was  the  young  Russian's  story  of  my  prede 
cessor  in  the  flat. 

"I  must  confess  that  it  scarcely  made  my  new  home 
seem  more  home-like  to  me.  When  I  was  back  again  in 
it  my  imagination  set  to  work.  I  called  up  mentally  the 
'skinny,  coquettish  old  woman/  barred  in  alone  there, 
a  prey  to  perpetual  terror,  living  in  solitude  in  the  little 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  291 

room  that  looked  out  upon  the  garden,  finally  finding  her 
sentence  of  death  in  the  letter-box  and  succumbing  to  an 
access  of  senile  fear,  with  a  guttering  candle  to  light  her 
into  eternity. 

"A  guttering  candle  beside  her.  The  young  Russian 
,was  not  without  an  appreciation  of  detail.  Why  had  he 
happened  to  mention  that  one?  Probably  because  I  had 
told  him  of  the  lighted  candles.  The  mind  goes  back 
sometimes  without  being  aware  of  it.  Do  we  not  know 
this  from  our  dreams? 

"My  friend  of  the  morning  had  not  offered  any  sug 
gestion  for  the  elucidation  of  my  mystery.  I  remem 
bered  that  only  after  I  had  left  him.  His  narrative  of 
the  princess  had  drawn  him  away,  and  me  with  him,  into 
another  channel  of  thought.  But,  if  it  had  not  been  so, 
what  explanation  could  he  have  suggested?  Somebody 
had  means  of  access  to  my  flat,  and  had  used  these  means 
two  nights  running.  That  was  all  I  knew.  What  more 
could  this  young  man  know?  My  having  thus  entered 
into  conversation  with  the  only  person  admitted  to  the 
flat  while  the  princess  occupied  it  was  one  of  those 
strange  coincidences  which  occur  continually  in  life. 

"All  that  day  my  mind  dwelt  upon  the  Russian's  nar 
rative  and  the  lighted  candles,  trying,  I  think  now,  to 
find  a  link  between  this  dead  old  woman  of  an  evil  nature 
and  the  person  who  came  to  the  flat  from  which  her 
corpse  had  been  carried  out.  Those  Russians  who  had 

plotted  her  death,  could  they ?  But  at  this  point  I 

had  the  sense  to  realise  that  I  was  allowing  myself  to  be 
carried  away  into  absurdity.  The  person,  whoever  it  was, 
who  visited  my  rooms,  must,  of  course,  know  that  they 
were  no  longer  occupied  by  the  princess. 

"That  night  I  dined  at  home,  and  when  Lucia  left  me 
and  I  had  been  over  the  flat  I  settled  down  in  the  draw 
ing-room  with  a  cigar  and  a  book.  I  had  extinguished 
the  gas  in  the  hall  and  left  the  door  of  the  drawing-room 
open,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  little  inclination  for 
reading.  I  knew  that  I  was  going  to  listen  for  the  sound 


SNAKE-BITE 

of  a  key  inserted  in  my  front  door,  for  a  step  in  the  hall. 
If  the  visitor  of  the  two  previous  nights  came  a  third 
time — well,  he  or  she  would  find  the  host  who  had  been 
lacking  before.  I  said  to  myself  that,  of  course,  no  one 
would  come  since  I  was  at  home.  My  going  out  must 
have  been  seen.  To-night  the  fact  that  I  did  not  go  out 
would  doubtless  be  known.  No  one  would  come. 

"Nevertheless,  I  waited  and  listened  with  the  door 
open  into  the  dark  hall. 

"In  the  distance  I  heard  the  muffled  roar  of  Rome. 
Somewhere  out  there  was  the  person  who  came  to  my 
flat  by  night,  unless,  indeed,  the  intruder  dwelt  within 
this  building  full  of  apartments.  The  time  wore  on. 
I  read  some  pages  of  my  book,  but  scarcely  knew  what  I 
read,  so  attentive  was  my  ear  to  catch  the  smallest  near 
sound. 

"If  anyone  came  he  should  not  enter  without  my  knowl 
edge. 

"But  at  last  the  distant  sounds  began  to  die  down.  It 
was  deep  in  the  night  and  weariness  overtook  me.  I  re 
solved  to  go  to  bed,  and  got  up  to  do  so,  at  the  same 
time  looking  at  my  watch.  A  quarter  to  one.  I  had  had 
no  idea  that  the  hour  was  so  late,  and  realised  for  the 
first  time  how  intently  I  had  been  listening,  with  what 
anxiety  I  had  been  waiting. 

"Having  lit  my  bedroom  candle,  which  was  on  the 
writing  table,  I  turned  out  the  gas  and  stepped  into  the 
hall.  Owing  to  the  situation  of  the  drawing-room  I 
was  at  once  opposite  to  the  passage.  It  was  dark,  and 
the  door  of  the  servant's  bedroom  was  shut.  Had  I  shut 
it?  I  could  not  remember.  I  waited  a  moment,  look 
ing  at  the  door.  Instantly  I  was  aware  of  a  pale,  small 
ray  of  light  issuing  from  the  darkness  directly  before 
me.  It  came  through  the  key-hole  of  the  door.  Within 
the  room  the  candle  was  lighted. 

"By  whom? 

"This  time  I  held  my  breath.  I  was  conscious  of  a 
^  feeling  of  extraordinary  disquietude,  almost  of  fear,  of 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES 

a  strong  repugnance  against  going  into  the  chamber  of 
the  lighted  candle. 

"It  seemed  to  me  that,  if  I  did  so,  I  should  find  within 
a  skinny,  coquettish  old  woman;  that  as  I  opened  the 
door  all  the  coquetry  would  die  out  of  her;  that  my  en 
trance  would  be  greeted  with  a  harsh,  strangled  cry  of 
fear. 

"At  that  moment,  for  the  first  time,  I  seemed  to  be 
conscious  of  the  nearness  to  me  of  terror.  And  the 
thought  of  this  terror  near  me  made  my  hair  bristle  up 
on  my  head. 

"What  I  really  wanted  to  do  just  then  was  to  go 
straight  out  of  the  flat,  down  the  stairs,  and  into  the  open 
street,  to  find  myself  under  the  stars,  to  see  the  lights  in 
the  cafes,  to  hear  the  hum  of  happy  people.  What  I  did, 
after  a  pause,  was  to  relight  my  candle,  walk  quickly, 
with  a  firm  step,  down  the  passage,  and  brusquely  fling 
open  the  door  of  the  bedroom. 

"Silence,  emptiness,  and  beside  the  bed,  burning 
steadily,  the  lighted  candle. 

"I  stood  looking  round. 

"It  was  a  small,  uninteresting  room,  containing  a  bed, 
a  chair,  a  table,  a  washhand-stand,  a  stand  for  a  candle 
by  the  bed.  The  wooden  shutters  were  closed.  From 
the  wall  an  oleograph  of  the  Madonna  and  Child  re 
garded  me  with  lack-lustre  eyes.  In  that  bed  the  old 
princess  had  died  of  terror.  Upon  that  stand  had  been 
the  guttering  candle,  lighted  as  a  protection  against  the 
trooping  terrors  of  the  night. 

"And  now — who  lighted  the  candles  in  this  room? 

"I  sat  down  on  the  only  chair  the  room  contained,  sat 
down  resolutely — for  I  did  it  against  my  will — and  tried 
to  reason  the  matter  out.  On  the  previous  two  nights  I 
had  supposed,  I  had  felt  quite  sure,  that  someone  who 
possessed  a  key  of  the  door  had  come  in  for  some  pur 
pose  I  could  not  divine,  had  lighted  the  candle  in  order 
to  see  to  accomplish  that  purpose,  and  had  gone  away, 
carelessly  forgetting  to  extinguish  the  candle.  But  to- 


294  SNAKE-BITE 

night  no  one  had  entered  the  flat.  I  had  been  alone  in 
it.  And  yet  the  candle  had  been  lighted.  By  what? 
And  why? 

"By  what?  I  had  got  to  this  point  in  my  thinking. 
Was  it  extraordinary?  There  are  certain  things  one 
can  say  one  knows.  That  night  I  knew  that  no  one  could 
have  come  into  the  flat  without  my  knowledge.  It  was 
impossible  to  open  the  front  door  without  noise  with  a 
key.  Without  a  key  the  front  door  could  not  be  opened 
at  all.  I  knew  that  the  door  had  not  been  opened.  The 
windows  of  the  kitchen  and  the  back  bedroom  were 
securely  closed  and  were  shuttered.  No  one  could  have 
got  in  by  them.  Nevertheless  the  candle  had  been 
lighted. 

"Therefore,  I  asked  myself  the  question :  by  what  had 
it  been  lighted  ? 

"In  the  passage,  when  I  first  saw  the  ray  of  light,  I 
had  felt  as  if  the  old  Princess  were  secluded  within  the 
room;  as  if  I  caught  the  infection  of  her  fear.  But  now 
my  terror — for  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  the  touch 
of  terror  that  made  my  hair  rise — was  abated.  I  felt 
calmer,  and  I  tried  deliberately  to  be  receptive;  to  make 
myself,  as  it  were,  an  empty  vessel  into  which  might  be 
poured  the  truth  of  that  room. 

"I  should  tell  you  that,  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak, 
I  was  neither  a  believer  nor  an  unbeliever  in  another 
world,  in  spirit  agencies.  I  kept  an  open  mind,  capable, 
I  trust,  of  conviction.  Nevertheless,  I  was  not  prepared, 
at  a  moment's  notice,  to  swallow  marvels  without  investi 
gation.  I  cannot,  however,  deny  that  since  my  meeting 
with  the  Russian  student  I  looked  upon  this  dull  little 
room  with  altered  eyes.  And  now  as  I  sat  in  it,  I  felt 
about  it  strangely. 

"As  I  told  you,  I  was  now  calmj  at  least,  I  believe  so. 
I  let  my  mind  alone.  I  sat,  if  I  may  use  the  expression, 
with  all  my  mental  muscles  relaxed.  The  vessel  was 
empty.  It  seemed  to  me  that  something  flowed  into  it 
and  filled  it  like  a  fluid ;  some  influence,  some  personality 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  295 

that  was  inhabiting  the  room.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I 
was  conscious  of  the  shivering  touch  of  fear;  that  I 
heard  far,  far  off,  faint  and  yet  horrible,  the  shuddering 
cry  of  fear;  that  I  knew — because  somehow  I  was  told 
— why  that  candle  had  been  lighted ;  and  that  it  had  been 
lighted  by  something  that  dwelt  in  that  room  and  was 
abjectly  afraid  of  being  killed  in  the  dark. 

"Ridiculous,  you  will  say.  The  story  of  the  Russian 
student  peopling  an  excited  mind  with  imaginations.  I 
tried  to  say  the  same  thing  to  myself.  I  left  the  room 
presently  (carrying  the  candle  that  had  been  so  mys 
teriously  lighted  with  me,  and  shutting  and  locking  the 
door  behind  me),  saying  the  same  thing  to  myself.  I 
lay  awake  saying  it. 

"You  must  not  think  I  yielded  feebly  to  crazy  ideas 
unworthy  of  a  full-grown  man.  I  did  not.  I  combated 
them  as  you  would.  And  when  the  morning  came  I  re 
solved  that  if  I  had  peopled  the  back  bedroom  with  fig 
ments  of  the  imagination,  I  would  people  it  now  with 
something  very  different. 

"By  lunch-time  I  had  engaged  a  man-servant.  He 
was  not  a  Roman,  but  a  Sicilian,  who  had  only  just  come 
to  Rome  in  the  hope  of  earning  some  money.  He  was 
about  twenty-four,  pleasant,  and  active-looking,  and  had 
excellent  references  from  a  well-known  Sicilian  family 
in  Palermo.  Like  the  cook,  he  was  ready  to  come  to  me 
at  once,  and  as  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  have  him,  the  bargain 
was  promptly  made. 

"That  afternoon  he  entered  my  service. 

"Now,  at  about  four  the  same  day  I  was  again  at  the 
Pincio,  strolling  near  the  parapet  of  the  terrace,  and 
listening  to  the  music,  when  I  encountered  the  Russian 
student.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  looked  inclined  to  join 
me.  And  I  was  nothing  loth.  We  presently  sat  down 
together  on  two  chairs  in  the  sunshine,  and  I  told  him 
of  the  episode  of  the  previous  night.  When  I  had  finished 
I  added  that  I  had  now  engaged  a  Sicilian  man-servant, 


296  SNAKE-BITE 

who  would  sleep  in  the  back  bedroom,  and  that  he  en 
tered  my  service  that  day. 

"The  young  Russian,  who  had  listened  to  me  with 
deep  attention,  shook  his  shoulders  with  a  movement 
that  looked  like  a  shiver. 

"  'I  would  not  be  your  servant,  monsieur/  he  said.  'I 
would  not  sleep  in  the  bed  where  the  old  Princess — ooh/ 

"  'But  this  man  knows  nothing  and  will  feel  noth 
ing/ 

"  What  if  the  candle  is  lighted?' 

"Then  you ?' 

"I  paused. 

"  'Monsieur/  he  said,  'in  Russia  we  are  superstitious. 
I  am  glad  you  have  engaged  this  young  man.  You  say 
he  is  of  the  people  of  Sicily.  The  Sicilians  are  bold,  but 
they  are  sensitive.  This  man  knows  nothing  about  your 
flat,  about  the  little  room,  about  the  lighted  candles.  Let 
him  be  a  touchstone.  Can  I  say  that?  If  he  feels  noth 
ing,  if  he  sees  nothing — very  well,  there  is  nothing,  and 
there  is  some  simple  explanation  of  the  lighted  candles. 
If  not — if  he  is  affected,  if  he  fears,  then  there  is  some 
thing/ 

"He  added,  after  a  moment  of  thought: 

"  They  say,  those  who  are  superstitious,  that  three 
lighted  candles  are  a  sign  of  death/ 

"  'Many  English  people  think  that  too/ 

"  'Do  you,  monsieur?' 

"  'I  have  never  bothered  about  such  things.  The 
strange — by  that  I  mean  the  abnormal,  using  the  word 
in  the  sense  in  which  it  is  generally  used — has  been  a 
stranger  to  me  until  now/ 

"Giovanni,  the  Sicilian  servant,  settled  in  very  com 
fortably,  and  seemed  pleased  with  his  room.  He  was  a 
gay-looking  youth,  and  that  evening,  when  I  heard  him 
laughing  and  talking  with  Lucia  in  the  kitchen,  I  felt  as 
if  a  cloud  which  had  been  lowering  over  me  were  lifting. 

"I  did  not  go  out  that  night,  and  went  to  bed  early, 
and  slept  well." 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  297 

My  travelling  companion  stopped  speaking  at  this 
point. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked.    "Is  anything  the  matter  1" 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "I  never  can  recall  the  next  day 
[without  a  feeling  of  horror." 

"Why?    What  happened?" 

"Simply  this.  In  the  morning  when  Lucia  arrived, 
Giovanni  did  not  come  out  of  his  room.  When  I  got  up 
and  asked  for  him,  she  said  that  he  had  not  opened  his 
door.  I  thought  he  had  overslept  himself,  went  to  his 
room,  and  found  the  poor  fellow  dead." 

"Good  heaven!    Why?    What  had  he  died  of  ?" 

"There  was  an  expression  of  terror  on  his  face.  I 
went  at  once  for  a  doctor,  who  examined  him,  and  said 
that  his  death  was  caused  by  heart  failure.  Although  he 
had  looked  strong,  he  had  had  a  very  weak  heart.  The, 
same  day  Lucia  gave  me  warning.  She  said  that  the 
Evil  Eye  had  looked  upon  my  flat." 

"And  you?" 

"I  removed  to  a  hotel.    Do  you  wonder?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"Unfortunately  I  had  taken  the  flat  for  three  months, 
and  was  obliged  to  pay  the  rent.  I  did  so,  and,  of  course, 
it  continued  to  be  my  flat,  although  I  did  not  live  in  it. 
Giovanni  was  buried  and  the  flat  remained  empty,  I 
keeping  the  keys  and  able  to  go  in  and  out  whenever  I 
liked." 

"And  did  you  ever  go  there?" 

"I  did  with  the  Russian  student.  I  must  tell  you  that 
my  acquaintance  with  him  developed  into  a  sort  of  in 
timacy.  His  knowledge  of  the  old  Princess,  I  think, 
attracted  me  to  him.  For  I  must  confess  that  I  could 
never  think  of  the  lighted  candles  and  of  Giovanni's 
death  without  thinking  of  her.  But  I  soon  grew  to  like 
him  for  his  own  sake.  There  was  something  unconven 
tional,  enthusiastic  about  him  that  pleased  me.  But  I 
also  had  other  reasons  for  seeking  him.  He  puzzled  me. 
Despite  his  enthusiasm,  his  frankness,  even  his  apparent 


298  SNAKE-BITE 

carelessness,  he  was  reserved.  I  was  always  conscious 
that  there  were  depths  in  this  young  man  which  I  had  not 
sounded,  that  there  were  mysteries  in  his  character  which 
I  had  not  explored. 

"It  was  as  if  one  always  saw  a  door  wide  open,  yet 
could  never  go  into  the  room  beyond,  a  room  that  was 
dimly  lit. 

"I  had  told  him  about  the  fate  of  my  servant  and  my 
departure  from  the  flat.  He  said,  'You  did  wisely. 
Death  is  there.' 

"One  day,  perhaps  three  weeks  after  Giovanni's  death, 
we  were  dining  together  at  the  Cafe  Berardi,  near  the 
Piazza  di  Spagna,  when — I  scarcely  know  why — I  was 
moved  to  tell  the  Russian  that,  though  I  had  left  the 
flat,  I  was  often  tormented  by  an  itching  desire  to  go 
back  to  it,  if  only  for  an  hour  now  and  then;  that  some 
thing  seemed  to  draw  me  to  the  door,  yet  that,  when  I 
was  there,  I  felt  a  reluctance  to  enter. 

"  'Have  you  ever  gone  in  again  ?'  he  inquired. 

"  'Not  since  the  day  I  left  Can  you  understand  my 
sensation?' 

"  'Yes.  Where  mystery  or  fear  abide  there  is  always 
fascination.  Why,  they  say  that  even  murderers  find  it 
difficult  to  keep  away  from  the  places  where  their  crimes 
have  been  committed.' 

"  'I  suppose '  I  hesitated. 

"'Yes,  monsieur?' 

"  'I  suppose  you  wouldn't  come  into  the  flat  with  me 
one  night — say  to-night — and  spend  an  hour  and  smoke 
a  cigar?' 

"He  darted  at  me  a  swift  look  that,  I  fancied,  was 
suspicious. 

"  'I  ?'  he  said.    'Why  should  I  go  there  ?' 

"I  was  surprised  by  his  emphasis. 

"  'Merely  to  keep  me  company.' 

"  'Oh,  I  see.'  His  voice  was  changed.  'Well,  why 
not?' 

"  'Perhaps  you  dislike  the  idea?' 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  299 

"With  a  sort  of  sudden  gush  of  frankness,  eminently 
characteristic  of  him,  he  said: 

"  'I  both  dislike  and  am  attracted  by  it.  Why  shouldn't 
I  speak  the  truth,  monsieur?  I  connect  your  apartment 
with  horror — the  death  from  fear  of  the  Princess,  my 
patroness — therefore  I  am  drawn  to  it.  I  have  long 
wanted  to  go  there.  Yet  in  all  Rome  there  is  no  place 
I  dread  so  much.  That  is  the  truth.  Make  of  it  what 
you  can/ 

"  'Let  us  go/  I  said  with  sudden  decision,  getting  up 
from  my  chair. 

"He  seemed  startled  by  my  abruptness,  but  after  an 
instant's  hesitation  he  got  up  too. 

"  'Very  well/  he  said. 

"And  again  he  cast  at  me  a  glance  that  seemed  a 
glance  of  suspicion.  I  wondered  what  it  meant.  We 
went  out,  got  into  an  open  cab,  and  drove  to  the  house 
in  which  my  deserted  apartment  was. 

"  'You've  got  the  key,  then,  monsieur?'  said  the  Rus 
sian,  when  I  gave  the  cabman  the  address. 

"  'Yes/ 

"He  said  nothing  more  during  the  drive.  When  we 
reached  the  house  it  was  not  yet  ten ;  the  porter  was  still 
up  and  the  lamps  were  still  burning  on  the  staircase. 
The  porter  looked  much  surprised  to  see  me. 

"  'You  have  come  back,  signore !'  he  exclaimed. 

"  'Only  for  a  little  while.    I'm  not  going  to  stay/ 

"  'Better  not/  the  old  man  muttered.     'Better  not/ 

"He  glanced  at  my  companion. 

"  'But  perhaps  the  signore  is  thinking  of  taking  the 
apartment.  I  have  seen  him  here  before,  when  the ' 

"  'Bast a?  said  the  Russian  rather  roughly. 

"And  he  began  to  mount  the  stairs. 

"  'This  signore  is  a  friend  of  mine/  I  said  to  the 
porter.  'He  has  not  come  after  the  apartment/ 

"And  I  followed  the  Russian  to  the  third  floor,  leaving 
the  old  man  mumbling  to  himself. 

"I   found  my  friend — I  will  call  him  Drovinsky — 


300  SNAKE-BITE 

standing  on  the  third  landing,  with  his  hand  on  the 
balustrade  of  the  staircase.  As  I  came  up  he  said  in  a 
low  voice : 

"  'Now,  what  are  we  here  for?' 

«  'Why,  to ' 

"  'No,  but  what  are  we  going  to  do  ?    Doesn't  it  seem 

rather  absurd  for  two  grown  men ?' 

'  'You  want  to  cry  off/  I  said,  rather  bluntly,  I  fear. 

"Again  that  glance  of  suspicion. 

"  'No,  monsieur.  Only  let  us  know  why  we  are 
doing  this/ 

"  'Inside  I'll  tell  you/ 

"I  inserted  the  key  in  the  door  and  we  stepped  into 
the  hall.  In  a  moment  I  had  lit  the  gas. 

"  'There  is  gas  in  the  drawing-room,  too/  I  said.  'Let 
us  sit  there/ 

"Drovinsky  was  standing  by  the  hall  door,  which  he 
had  shut. 

"  'Very  well/  he  said. 

"He  followed  me  closely  as  I  went  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  'How  deserted  it  looks  already/  I  said,  lighting  the 
gas. 

'Yes.    Now,  are  we  to  sit  down  and  smoke  ?' 

"  'I  wonder  if  I  can  find  a  candle.  I  left  some  can 
dles/ 

"  'Why  do  you  want  a  candle?' 

"  'Merely  to  look  into  the  rooms.    Wait  a  moment/ 

"I  found  a  candle  in  the  kitchen,  lit  it  and  went  over 
the  flat.    Meanwhile  Drovinsky  remained  in  the  drawing- 
room.     When  I  came  back  I  said: 
'  'It  is  just  as  I  left  it/ 

"  'Naturally/ 

"  'Yes.    Well,  shall  we  light  our  cigars?' 

:'  'And  you  will  tell  me  why  we  are  doing  this  ?' 

"  'But  you  know  already/  I  said,  taking  out  my  cigar 
case.  'You  yourself  have  told  me.  Where  mystery  and 
fear  abide ' 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  301 

"And  I  lit  my  cigar  and  sat  down.  He  laughed  and 
followed  my  example. 

"  'But,  after  all,  do  they,  can  they,  abide  here?* 

"He  glanced  round  at  the  very  small  modern  furniture 
of  the  small  modern  room,  and  laughed  again.  And  his 
own  laugh  seemed  to  answer  'Yes'  to  his  question. 

"  'I  think  they  can  abide  wherever  tragedy  has  been. 
And  tragedy  has  been  here.' 

"  'You  mean  that  poor  fellow  ?' 

"  'And  the  Princess  Andrakov/ 

"  'Oh,  the  Princess ' 

"  'Could  anything  be  more  tragic  than  to  die  in  terror 
alone,  at  night?' 

"  'She  had  brought  terror  to  others/ 

"His  voice  was  suddenly  hard.  He  had  sat  down  near 
me  and  had  begun  to  smoke.  I  confess  that,  knowing  the 
Princess  had  been  kind  to  him,  I  was  sometimes  rather 
surprised  by  the  way  in  which  Drovinsky  spoke  of  her.  I 
was  surprised  now. 

"  'But  you  were  a  friend  of  hers/  I  said. 

"  'Scarcely  that.  Because  she  had  liked  my  mother 
the  Princess  certainly  did  something  for  me.  Still,  I 
cannot  be  blind  to  her  character/ 

"He  looked  at  me  searchingly. 

"'What  is  it?'  I  said. 

"  'I  wonder — I  wonder  what  your  view  of  me  would 
be  if  I  were  to  tell  you  something.  It  is  very  strange  that 
here,  in  this  place  where  she  died,  I  feel  a  strong,  an 
almost  overpowering  inclination  to  speak/ 

"He  stopped,  still  looking  at  me  with  deeply  inauiring 
eyes. 

'  'Speak  then/  I  said. 

"  'Do  you  remember  my  saying  at  Berardi's  that  I  be 
lieved  murderers  often  were  compelled  to  come  back  to 
the  places  of  their  crimes?' 

"  'Yes/ 

«  Well— I  have  done  that/ 

"'You!'  I  cried,  startled. 


302  SNAKE-BITE 

"  'I  killed  the  Princess  Andrakov/ 

"I  sprang  from  my  seat  in  horror. 

"  'Wait,  monsieur/  said  the  Russian.  'My  weapon 
was  a  letter/ ' 

"  What  do  you  mean?' 

"  'It  was  I  who  put  into  her  letter-box  the  paper  which 
told  the  Princess  that  her  place  of  concealment  was 
known,  and  it  was  the  terror  caused  by  that  communica 
tion  that  killed  her/ 

"I  sat  down  again. 

"  'You  meant  to  warn  the  Princess  so  that  she  might 
escape?' 

"  'Monsieur,  I  wished  her  to  die/ 

"'Why?' 

"  'If  she  had  not  died,  I  should  have  killed  her/ 

"  'Your  patroness  ?  The  woman  who  had  been  kind 
to  you?' 

"I  was  not  a  free  agent.  I  belonged  to  a  secret  so 
ciety  whose  orders  I  had  to  obey.  The  assassination  of 
the  Princess  fell  to  my  lot/ 

"  'And  you  would  have ?' 

"  'If  she  had  not  died — yes/ 

"He  spoke  calmly,  fatalistically,  but,  as  he  finished,  he 
glanced  towards  the  door  almost  as  if  he  expected  some 
one  to  come  in. 

"  'You  were  in  Rome  for  that?'  I  asked. 

"  'No,  monsieur.  It  was  advisable  for  me  to  get  out  of 
Russia,  so  I  came  here.  Because  I  was  here  I  was  chosen 
to  kill  the  Princess  when  it  was  known  that  she  was  in 
Rome/ 

"  'And  you ?' 

"  'No,'  he  interrupted.  'I  did  not  tell  them.  What 
do  you  think  of  me?' 

"  'I  think  you  have  a  great  deal  of  nerve/ 

"'Why?' 

"  'To  come  into  this  apartment  after  what  I  have  told 
you/ 

"  'But  I  am  not  alone/ 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  303 

"The  devil  prompted  me  to  say : 

"  'Would  you  pass  a  night  here  alone?' 

"Why  should  I?' 

"Would  you  for  abet?' 

"I  knew  the  man  was  very  poor.  The  devil  certainly 
was  at  my  elbow. 

"  'I  will  bet  you  a  thousand  lire  to  one/  I  said,  'that 
you  won't  do  it.' 
" You  are  joking?' 

"  'No,  a  thousand  lire  to  one.    Parola  d'onore' 

"I  saw  that  he  was  tempted. 

"  'To-morrow  morning  I  will  come  here.  We  will 
breakfast  together,  and  you  shall  have  a  thousand  lire.' 

"  'If  I  do  it,'  he  said,  with  obvious  hesitation,  'I  make 
one  proviso/ 

"'What  is  it?' 

"  'I  will  not  go  into  the  back  bedroom/ 

"  'You  need  not/ 

"  'Very  well,  then,  monsieur,  I  accept  your  wager/ 

"Oddly  enough,  directly  my  proposition  was  accepted 
I  began  to  regret  having  made  it. 

"  'But  if  you  feel '  I  began. 

"  'Monsieur,  I  accept  your  wager.    Parola  d'onore!' 

"  'Certainly/  I  replied  hastily,  seeing  that  he  thought 
I  was  jibbing  at  the  idea  of  losing  my  money.  'Parola 
d'onore.' 

"There  was  a  short  uneasy  silence  between  us,  during 
which  neither  looked  at  the  other.  Then  I  said: 

"  'Well,  I  think  I'll  be  off  now.  What  time  shall  I 
come  to-morrow  morning?' 

"  'When  you  please,  monsieur/ 

'"Shall  we  say  eight  o'clock?' 

"  'Certainly — eight  o'clock/ 

"  'All  right.  There's  the  candle  if  you  want  to  use 
the  front  bedroom.  There  isn't  any  gas  there/ 

"  'Thank  you,  monsieur/ 

"A  constraint  had  certainly  come  between  us  since  the 
Russian's  confession  and  my  suggestion  of  the  wager. 


304  SNAKE-BITE 

"I  went  out  into  the  hall.    He  followed  me. 

"  'You  know  the  front  rooms?'  I  asked. 

"  'No,  monsieur/ 

"  This  is  the  dining-room.' 

"We  went  into  it.  The  shutters  were  not  closed,  and 
I  went  to  the  window  to  close  them.  Before  doing  so 
I  felt  the  window  to  see  if  it  was  fastened.  It  flew  open, 
and,  by  a  faint  moonlight,  I  saw  the  open  space  opposite, 
used  by  bicyclists  for  their  lessons.  A  dark  figure  was 
standing  there  motionless  as  if  looking  up  at  the  house. 
I  stared  at  it  for  a  minute.  Then  I  shut  the  window  and 
closed  the  shutters.  We  went  together  through  the  two 
remaining  rooms  and  came  to  the  hall  door. 

"  'Good-night/  I  said. 

"  'Good-night,  monsieur.' 

"Again  reluctance  overtook  me — reluctance  to  leave 
him  there  alone. 

"  'You  are  really  going  to  stay?' 

"  'Really.' 

"  'You  don't  think ' 

"  'I  am  going  to  stay.' 

"  'His  voice  was  strange  as  he  said  those  last  words. 
I  began  to  believe  that,  apart  from  the  money,  he  now 
wished  to  remain,  that  he  had  a  more  personal  reason 
for  his  desire.  And  I  thought  of  his  words  about  the 
fascination  of  fear. 

"  'Good-night,  then,'  I  said. 

"I  held  out  my  hand.  He  took  it  for  a  moment.  His 
hand  was  very  cold. 

"  'Good-night,  monsieur.' 

"His  high  cheek-bones,  light  eyes,  frizzly  hair,  dis 
appeared  as  he  softly  closed  the  door. 

"I  walked  home  to  my  hotel  which  was  at  some  short 
distance  off,  asking  myself  almost  angrily  what  had 
prompted  me  to  make  the  suggestion  of  the  bet.  Why 
should  I  wish  the  Russian  to  spend  the  night  alone  in 
the  flat?  There  could  only  be  one  reason  and  that  con 
demned  me.  I  thought  there  was  some  danger  there. 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  305 

This  bet  had  forced  me  to  face  a  fact.  I  knew  now  that 
I  believed  the  flat  to  be  still  occupied  by  all  that  was 
left  of  the  old  Princess — all  that  was  left  above  ground. 
The  body  was  hidden  in  the  grave,  but  the  essence  of 
that  formerly  terrible  and  latterly  terrified  human  being 
had  been  released  from  the  body  and  remained  where 
the  body  had  died." 

At  this  moment  the  attendant  put  in  his  head. 

"It  is  twelve  o'clock,  messieurs.  Shall  I  make  the 
beds?" 

"I've  just  finished,"  said  my  companion. 

"Another  five  minutes,"  I  said,  putting  five  francs  into 
his  hand. 

He  disappeared  yawning  into  the  rocking  corridor. 

"There  really  is  little  more  to  tell,"  said  my  com 
panion.  "In  the  morning,  at  eight  o'clock,  I  was  at  the 
flat  door.  I  let  myself  in  with  my  key  and  before  I 
had  shut  the  door,  called  out  in  a  voice  which  was 
deliberately  cheery  and  commonplace: 

"  'Monsieur  Drovinsky !' 

"There  was  no  reply.  I  opened  the  bedroom  door  on 
the  right.  It  was  unoccupied. 

"'Monsieur  Drovinsky!    Drovinsky!'  I  called  again. 

"Silence. 

"With  an  effort  I  shut  the  front  door,  and,  walking 
softly,  went  to  the  dressing-room,  then  to  the  dining- 
room.  Both  were  empty.  So  was  the  drawing-room,  into 
which  I  next  looked.  I  began  to  think  that  I  had  won 
my  bet,  that  Drovinsky  had  not  remained  in  the  flat  for 
the  night.  But  there  were  still  three  rooms  to  be  ex 
amined,  the  bathroom,  the  kitchen,  and — but  I  knew 
Drovinsky  would  not  have  entered  the  back  bedroom. 
When  taking  my  bet  he  had  made  it  a  proviso  that  he 
need  not  go  into  it. 

"No  one  in  the  bathroom.    No  one  in  the  kitchen. 

"The  door  of  the  back  bedroom  was  shut.  I  confess 
I  hesitated  to  open  it.  Of  course,  Drovinsky  had  gone 
away.  It  was  useless  to  look  into  this  room.  He  had 


306  SNAKE-BITE 

told  me  that  he  would  not  enter  it.  My  task  was  over. 
I  turned  away  from  the  door.  I  even  walked  a  few 
steps  down  the  passage.  Then  I  stopped.  I  knew  I  was 
playing  the  coward.  I  was  afraid  to  go  into  that  room. 
I  remembered  Giovanni's  death,  and — I  threw  open  the 
door. 

"Drovinsky  lay  on  the  bed,  his  face  turned  towards  the 
door,  the  light,  frizzly  hair  falling  across  his  cheeks. 
His  eyes  were  open.  The  flickering  flame  of  a  candle, 
burned  down  to  the  socket,  wavered  across  them,  the 
semblance  of  the  inner  flame  of  life. 

"But  they  were  dead  eyes  in  a  dead  man's  face." 

My  companion  stopped. 

"But,"  I  said,  "that's  not  all?" 

"Remember,"  he  answered,  "this  is  a  true  story.  Life 
is  not  an  adroit  novelist  who  gathers  up  all  the  threads." 

"Why  should  the  Russian  have  gone  into  that  room  ?" 

"I  imagine — I  feel  sure — that  the  fascination  of  fear 
led  him  there." 

"And  you  think  he — he  was  visited?" 

"As  Giovanni  was  ?    What  else  can  I  think  ?" 

"To  me,"  I  said,  "the  strangest  part  of  the  whole 
story  is  the  lighted  candles." 

"The  corpse  candles.  And  to  me.  The  first,  it  is  true, 
I  may  possibly  have  lighted  myself.  My  memory  may 
have  betrayed  me.  It  is  just  conceivable.  The  second 
may  have  been  lighted  by  someone  who  gained  access 
to  the  flat  while  I  was  out." 

"But  the  third?" 

"To  me  the  third  is  entirely  inexplicable.  I  once  told 
this  story  to  a  man,  however,  who  explained  it  in  this 
way.  He  said  that  Lucia,  my  cook,  must  have  lighted  it 
and  left  it  lighted  by  accident  when  she  went  home.  I 
told  him  that  after  her  departure  I  had  looked  into  the 
room  and  found  it  in  darkness.  He  asked  me  if  I  had 
looked  in  with  a  lighted  candle  in  my  hand.  I  acknowl 
edged  that  I  had.  Then,  he  said  he  was  not  convinced. 
I  myself  had  carried  light  into  the  room  and  might  not 


THE  LIGHTED  CANDLES  307 

have  observed  a  light  already  burning  in  it.  This  irri 
tated  me,  and  I  said,  'Then  my  eyes  can  absolutely  de 
ceive  me?'  'All  eyes  deceive  at  times/  he  replied.  And 
then  he  told  me  of  an  odd  fact  bearing  upon  his  state 
ment.  It  was  this: 

"He  was  in  perfect  health,  and  was  staying  in  a 
country  house.  He  went  in  the  middle  of  the  day  into 
a  small  room  to  write  a  letter.  This  room  had  only  one 
door,  from  which  you  saw  at  once  the  whole  of  the 
room.  There  was  no  dazzling  sunshine,  just  ordinary 
diffused  daylight.  He  opened  the  door  and  saw  that  the 
room  was  empty.  This  pleased  him,  as  he  did  not  wish 
to  be  disturbed  while  writing.  He  shut  the  door,  and, 
walking  quickly  forward  to  the  writing-table,  encoun 
tered  a  solid  body.  There  was  a  man  in  the  room,  a 
fellow-guest  standing  directly  before  him.  For  some 
reason,  quite  inexplicable,  he  had  looked  hard  at  this 
person  and  had  not  seen  him — had  not  seen  that  anyone 
was  there.  He  told  me  that  when  he  came  up  against 
this  invisible  man  his  blood  ran  cold  with  surprise,  and 
his  bones  seemed  to  turn  to  wax. 

"So  the  eyes  can  trick.  Well,  it  may  be  so  with 
me.  How  can  I,  how  dare  I,  swear  it  was  not  so?" 

"And  the  Russian's  death?" 

"Heart  failure,  like  Giovanni's.  Since  then  I  have  not 
entered  that  flat,  and  I  believe  it  has  not  been  let.  Be 
fore  I  took  it,  it  had  got  a  bad  name.  That  must  have 
been  why  the  Padrona  looked  at  me  so  strangely.  She 
was  wondering  if  I  had  heard  anything,  wondering 
whether  I  was  brave  or  merely  ignorant." 

"No  doubt.  And  one  thing  more.  That  dark  figure 
you  saw  apparently  watching  the  house  from  the  bi 
cycling  ground?" 

"Ah!  I  have  sometimes  wondered  whether  that  dark 
figure  held  any  key  to  the  mystery.  Could  Drovinsky 
have  earned  the  wrath  of  any  of  his  brothers  in  crime? 
Could  any  enemy  have  known  he  was  in  the  flat  that 
night-^have  gained  entrance?  Could  there  have  been  a 


308  SNAKE-BITE 

scene  and  could  Drovinsky  have  died  in  a  fit  of  passion? 
Non  lo  so,  as  the  Italians  say.  Perhaps  the  whole  thing 
has  a  natural  explanation." 

"But  you  believe  the  contrary?" 

"And  possibly  I  am  a  fool." 

He  threw  his  cigar  end  out  of  the  window  into  the 
darkness.  As  he  did  so  the  attendant  came  in  once 
more  to  make  the  beds. 

And  this  time  we  let  him  make  them. 


FIVE:  THE  NOMAD 


THE  fate  of  Madame  Lemaire  had  certainly  not  been  an 
ordinary  one.  She  was  French,  of  Marseilles,  as  yon 
could  tell  by  her  accent,  especially  when  she  said  "C'est 
bien!"  and  had  been  an  extremely  coquettish  and  lively 
girl,  with  a  strong  will  of  her  own  and  a  passionate  love 
of  pleasure  and  of  town  life.  From  her  talk  when  she 
was  seventeen,  you  would  have  gathered  that  if  she  ever 
moved  from  Marseilles  it  would  be  to  go  to  Paris.  Noth 
ing  else  would  be  good  enough  for  her.  She  felt  herself 
born  to  play  a  part  in  some  great  city. 

And  yet,  at  the  age  of  forty,  here  she  was  in  the  desert 
of  Sahara,  keeping  an  auberge  at  El-Keif  under  the  salt 
mountain!  She  sometimes  wondered  how  it  had  ever 
come  about,  when  she  crossed  the  court  of  the  inn,  round 
which  the  mules  of  customers  were  tethered  in  open  sheds, 
or  when  she  served  the  rough  Algerian  wine  to  farmers 
from  the  Tell,  or  to  some  dusty  commercial  traveller 
from  Batna,  in  the  arbour  trellised  with  vines  that 
fronted  the  desert. 

Marie  Lemaire,  who  had  been  Marie  Bretelle,  at  El- 
Keif  !  Marie  Lemaire  in  the  desert  of  Sahara  attending 
upon  God  knows  whom:  Algerians,  Spahis,  camel- 
drivers,  gazelle-hunters!  No;  it  was  too  much! 

But  if  you  have  a  "kink"  in  you,  to  what  may  you 
not  come?  Marie  Bretelle's  "kink"  had  been  an  idiotic 
softness  for  handsome  faces. 

She  wanted  to  shine  in  the  world,  to  cut  a  dash,  to 
go  to  Paris ;  or,  if  that  were  impossible,  to  stay  in  Mar- 

309 


310  SNAKE-BITE 

seilles  married  to  some  rich  city  man,  and  to  give  parties, 
and  to  get  gowns  from  Madame  Vannier,  of  the  Rue 
de  Cliche,  and  hats  from  Trebichot,  of  the  Rue  des 
Colonies,  and  to  attend  the  theatres,  and  to  be  stared  at 
and  pointed  out  on  the  race-course,  and — and,  in  fact, 
to  be  the  belle  of  Marseilles.  And  here  she  was  at 
El-Keif,  and  all  because  of  that  "kink"  in  her  nature ! 

Lemaire  had  had  a  handsome  face  and  been  a  fine  man, 
stalwart,  bold,  muscular,  determined.  He  did  not  belong 
to  Marseilles,  but  had  come  there  to  give  an  acrobatic 
show  in  a  music-hall;  and  there  Marie  Bretelle  had  seen 
him,  dressed  in  silver-spangled  tights,  and  doing  mar 
vellous  feats  on  three  parallel-bars.  His  bare  arms  had 
lumps  on  them  like  balls  of  iron,  his  fair  moustaches  were 
trained  into  points,  his  bold  eyes  were  lit  with  a  fire  to 
fascinate  women;  and — well,  Marie  Bretelle  ran  away 
with  him  and  became  Madame  Lemaire.  And  so  she 
came  to  Algiers,  where  Lemaire  had  an  accident  while 
giving  his  performance.  And  that  was  the  beginning 
of  the  Odyssey  which  had  ended  at  El-Keif. 

"Fool—fool—  fool !" 

Often  she  said  that  to  herself,  as  she  went  about  the 
inn  doing  her  duties  with  grains  of  sand  in  her  hair. 

"Fool— fool— fool!" 

The  word  was  taken  by  the  wind  of  the  waste  and 
carried  away  into  the  desert. 

After  his  accident  Lemaire  lost  his  engagements.  Then 
he  lost  his  looks.  He  put  on  flesh.  He  ceased  to  train 
his  moustaches  into  points.  The  great  muscles  got  soft, 
were  covered  with  flabby  fat.  Finally  he  took  to  drink. 
And  so  they  drifted. 

To  earn  some  money  he  became  many  things — guide, 
concierge,  tout  for  "La  belle  Fatima."  He  had  impos 
sible  professions  in  Algiers.  And  Marie?  Well,  it 
were  best  not  to  scrutinise  her  life  too  closely  under  the 
burning  sun  of  Africa.  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  not 
very  successful;  and  they  drifted  from  Algiers.  Where 
did  they  go?  Where  had  they  not  been  in  this  fiery 


THE  NOMAD  311 

land?  Oran  on  the  Moroccan  border  had  seen  them, 
and  the  mosques  of  Kairouan,  windy  Tunis,  and  rock- 
bound  Constantine,  laughing  Bougie  in  its  wall  by  the 
water,  Fort  National  in  the  Grande  Kabylie.  They  had 
been  everywhere.  And  at  last  some  wind  of  the  desert 
had  blown  them,  like  poor  grains  of  desert  sand,  from 
the  bending  palms  of  Biskra  to  the  mud  walls  of  El-Keif. 

And  here — God  help  them! — for  ten  years  they  had 
been  keeping  the  inn,  "Au  Retour  du  Desert." 

For  ten  long,  hot,  dry  years,  and  such  an  inn !  Why, 
at  Marseilles  they  would  have  called  it — well,  one  can 
not  tell  what  they  would  have  called  it  on  the  Canne- 
biere!  But  they  would  have  found  a  name  for  it,  that 
is  certain. 

It  stood  alone,  this  inn,  quite  alone  in  the  desert,  which 
at  El-Keif  circles  a  small  oasis  in  which  there  is  hidden 
among  fair-sized  palms  a  meagre  Arab  village.  Why 
the  inn  should  have  been  built  outside  of  the  oasis  away 
from  the  village  I  cannot  tell  you.  But  so  it  is.  It 
seems  to  be  disdainful  of  the  earth  houses  of  the  Arabs, 
to  be  determined  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  And 
yet  there  is  little  reason  in  its  disdain. 

For  it,  too,  is  built  of  sun-dried  earth  for  the  most 
part,  and  has  only  the  ground  floor  possessed  by  most  of 
them.  It  stands  facing  flat  but  not  illimitable  desert. 
The  road  that  passes  before  it  winds  away  to  land  where 
there  is  water;  and  from  the  trellised  arbour,  but  far 
off,  one  can  see  in  the  sunshine  the  sharp,  shrill  green 
of  crops,  grown  by  the  Spahis  whose  tented  camp  lies 
to  the  right  of  the  caravan  track  that  leads  over  the  Col 
de  Sfa  to  Biskra. 

Far,  far  along  that  road  one  can  see  from  the  inn,  till 
its  whiteness  is  as  the  whiteness  of  a  thread,  and  any 
figures  travelling  upon  it  are  less  than  little  dolls,  and 
even  a  caravan  is  but  a  moving  dimness  shrouded  in  a 
dimness  of  dust.  But  towards  evening,  when  the  strange 
clearness  of  Africa  becomes  almost  terribly  acute,  every 


SNAKE-BITE 

speck  upon  the  thread  has  a  meaning  to  attract  the  eye, 
and  set  the  mind  at  work  asking : 

"What  is  this  that  is  coming  upon  the  road?  Who 
is  this  that  travels?  Is  it  a  mounted  man  on  his  thin 
horse,  with  his  matchlock  pointing  to  the  sky?  Or  is 
it  a  woman  hunched  upon  a  trotting  donkey?  Or  a  No 
mad  on  his  camel  ?  Or  is  it  only  some  poor  desert  man, 
half  naked  in  his  rags,  who  tramps  on  his  bare  brown 
feet  along  the  sun-baked  track,  his  hood  drawn  above 
his  eyes,  his  knotted  club  in  his  hand  ?" 

After  ten  years  Marie  Lemaire  still  asked  herself  such 
questions  in  the  arbour  of  the  inn,  when  business  was 
slack,  when  her  husband  was  away,  or  was  lying  half 
drunk  upon  the  bed  after  an  extra  dose  of  absinthe, 
and  the  one-eyed  Arab  servant,  Hadj,  was  squatting  on 
his  haunches  in  a  corner  smoking  keef. 

Not  that  the  answer  mattered.  She  expected  nothing 
of  the  road  that  led  from  the  desert  to  her.  But  simply 
her  mind,  stagnant  though  it  had  become  in  the  solitude 
of  Africa,  had  to  do  something  to  occupy  itself  somehow. 
And  so  she  often  stared  across  the  plain,  with  an  aimless 
"Je  me  demande"  trembling  upon  her  lips,  and  a  hard 
expression  of  inquiry  in  her  dark  brown  eyes,  whose  lids 
were  seamed  with  tiny  wrinkles.  Perhaps  you  will  won 
der  why  Madame  Lemaire,  having  once  had  a  passion 
ate  love  for  pleasure  and  a  strong  will  of  her  own,  had 
consented  to  remain  for  ten  years  in  the  solitude  of  El- 
Keif,  drudging  in  a  miserable  auberge,  to  which  few 
people,  and  those  but  poor  ones,  ever  came. 

Circumstances  and  Robert  Lemaire  had  been  too  much 
for  her.  Both  had  been  cruel.  She  was  something  of 
a  slave  to  both.  Lemaire  was  an  utter  failure,  but  there 
lurked  within  him  still,  under  the  waves  of  absinthe, 
traces  of  the  dominating  power  which  had  long  ago  made 
him  a  success. 

Madame  Lemaire  had  worshipped  him  once,  and 
adored  his  strength  and  beauty.  They  were  gone  now. 
He  was  a  wreck.  But  he  was  a  wreck  with  fierceness  in 


THE  NOMAD  313 

it.  And  command  with  him  had  become  a  habit.  And 
Africa  bids  one  accept  And  so  Madame  Lemaire  had 
stayed  for  ten  long  years  drudging  at  the  inn  beside  the 
salt  mountain,  and  staring  down  the  long  white  road  for 
the  something  strange  and  interesting  from  the  desert 
that  never,  never  came. 

And  still  Lemaire  drank  absinthe,  and  cursed,  and 
drowsed.  For  ten  long  years !  And  still  Hadj  squatted 
upon  his  haunches  and  drugged  himself  with  keef.  And 
still  Madame  Lemaire  stood  under  the  trellised  vine, 
with  the  sand-grains  in  her  hair,  and  gazed  and  gazed 
over  the  plain. 

And  when  a  black  speck  appeared  far  off  upon  the 
whiteness  of  the  track,  she  watched  it  till  her  hard  eyes 
ached,  demanding  who,  or  what,  it  was — whether  a 
Spahi  on  horseback,  a  woman  on  her  donkey,  a  Nomad 
on  his  camel,  or  some  dark  and  half-naked  pedestrian 
of  the  sands,  that  travelled  through  the  sunset  glory  to 
wards  the  lonely  inn. 

ii 

Although  Robert  Lemaire  was  a  wreck  he  was  not 
an  old  man  in  years,  only  forty-five,  and  the  fine  and 
tonic  air  of  the  Sahara  preserved  him  from  complete 
destruction.  Shaggy  and  unkempt  he  was,  with  a  heavy 
bulk  of  chest  and  shoulders,  a  large,  pale  face,  and  the 
angry  and  distressed  eyes  of  the  absinthe  slave.  His 
hands  trembled  habitually,  and  on  his  bad  days  fluttered 
like  leaves.  But  there  was  still  some  force  in  his  pre 
maturely  aged  body,  still  some  will  in  his  mind.  He 
was  a  wreck,  but  he  was  the  wreck  of  one  who  had  been 
really  a  man  and  accustomed  to  dominate  women.  And 
this  he  did  not  forget. 

One  evening — it  was  in  May,  and  the  long  heats  of 
the  desert  had  already  set  in — Lemaire  was  away  from 
the  auberge,  shooting  near  the  salt  mountain  with  an 
acquaintance,  a  colonist  who  had  a  small  farm  not  far 
from  Biskra,  and  who  had  come  to  spend  the  night  at  El- 


SNAKE-BITE 

Keif.  This  man  had  a  history.  He  had  once  been  a 
hotel-keeper,  and  had  reason  to  suspect  a  guest  in  his 
hotel  of  having  guilty  intercourse  with  his  wife. 

One  night,  having  discovered  beyond  possibility  of 
doubt  that  his  suspicions  were  well  founded,  he  waited 
till  the  hotel  was  closed,  then  made  his  way  to  his 
guest's  room,  and  put  three  bullets  into  him  as  he  lay 
asleep  in  his  bed.  For  this  murder,  or  act  of  justice, 
he  got  only  ten  months'  imprisonment.  But  his  business 
as  a  hotel-keeper  was  ruined.  So  now  he  was  a  small 
farmer.  He  was  also,  perhaps,  the  only  real  friend  Le- 
maire  had  in  Africa,  and  he  came  occasionally  to  spend 
a  night  at  the  Retour  du  Desert. 

Upon  this  evening  of  May,  Madame  Lemaire  was 
alone  in  the  inn  with  the  one-eyed  servant  Hadj,  pre 
paring  supper  for  the  two  sportsmen.  The  flies  buzzed 
about  under  the  dusty  leaves  of  the  vine,  which  were 
unstirred  by  any  breeze.  The  crystals  upon  the  flanks 
of  the  salt  mountain  glittered  in  the  sun  that  was  still 
fiery,  though  not  far  from  its  declining. 

Upon  the  dry,  earthern  walls  of  the  inn  and  over  the 
stones  of  the  court  round  which  it  was  built,  the  lizards 
crept,  or  rested  with  eager,  glancing  patience,  as  if  alert 
for  further  movement,  but  waiting  for  a  signal.  A  mule 
or  two  stamped  in  the  long  stable  that  was  open  to  the 
court,  and  a  skeleton  of  a  white  Kabyle  dog  slunk  to  and 
fro  searching  for  scraps  with  his  lips  curled  back  from 
his  pointed  teeth. 

And  Madame  Lemaire  went  slowly  about  her  work 
with  the  sand-grains  in  her  hair,  and  the  flies  buzzing 
around  her. 

Nothing  had  happened.  Nothing  ever  did  happen  at 
El-Keif.  But  for  some  mysterious  reason  Madame  Le 
maire  suddenly  felt  to-day  that  her  existence  in  the  desert 
had  become  really  insupportable.  It  may  have  been  that 
Africa,  gradually  draining  away  the  Frenchwoman's 
vitality,  had  on  this  day  removed  the  last  little  drop  of 


THE  NOMAD  315 

the  force  that  had,  till  now,  enabled  her  to  face  her  life, 
however  dully,  however  wearily. 

It  may  have  been  that  there  was  some  peculiar  and 
unusual  heaviness  in  the  air  that  was  generally  of  a  feath 
ery  lightness.  Or  the  reason  may  have  been  mental, 
and  Africa  may  have  drawn  from  this  victim's  nature, 
on  this  particular  day,  a  grain,  small  as  a  grain  of  the 
sand,  of  will-power  that  was  absolutely  necessary  for  the 
keeping  of  the  woman's  stamina  upon  its  feet. 

However  it  was,  she  felt  that  she  collapsed.  She  did 
not  cry.  She  did  not  curse.  She  did  not  faint,  or  lie 
down  and  stare  with  desperate  eyes  at  the  vacant  dying 
day.  She  did  not  neglect  her  domestic  duties,  and  was 
even  now  tearing,  with  a  flat  key,  the  cover  from  some 
tinned  veal  and  ham  for  the  evening's  supper.  But 
something  within  her  had  abruptly  raised  its  voice.  She 
seemed  to  hear  it  saying:  "I  can't  bear  any  more!" 
and  to  know  that  it  spoke  the  truth.  No  longer  could 
she  bear  it:  the  African  sun  on  the  brown-earth  walls, 
the  settling  of  the  sand-grains  in  her  hair,  the  movement 
of  the  flies  about  her  face,  wrinkled  prematurely  by  the 
perpetual  dry  heat  and  by  the  desert  winds;  the  brazen 
sky  above  her,  the  iron  land  beneath,  the  silence — like 
the  silence  that  was  before  creation,  or  the  monotonous 
sounds  that  broke  it;  the  mule's  stamp  on  the  stones, 
the  barking  of  the  guard-dogs  upon  the  palm  roofs  of 
the  distant  houses  in  the  village,  the  sneering  laugh  of 
the  jackals  by  night,  that  whining  song  of  Hadj,  as  he 
wagged  his  shaven  head  over  the  pipe-bowl  into  which 
he  pressed  the  keef  that  was  bringing  him  to  madness. 

She  could  not  bear  it  any  more. 

The  look  in  her  face  scarcely  altered.  The  corners 
of  her  mouth,  long  since  grown  grim,  did  not  droop 
any  more  than  was  usual.  Her  thin,  hard  hands  were 
steady  as  they  did  their  dreary  work.  But  the  woman 
who  had  resisted  somehow  during  ten  terrible  years  of 
incompatable  monotony  suddenly  died  within  Marie 
Lemaire,  and  the  girl  of  Marseilles,  Marie  Bretelle, 


316  SNAKE-BITE 

shrieked    out    in    the    middle-aged,     haggard     body. 

"This  fate  was  not  meant  for  me.  I  cannot  bear  it 
any  more." 

Presently  the  tin  which  had  held  the  veal  and  ham  was 
empty,  save  for  some  bits  of  opaque  jelly  that  still  clung 
round  its  edges;  and  Madame  Lemaire  went  over  to  the 
dimly  burning  charcoal  with  a  dirty  old  fan  in  her  hand. 

Marie  Bretelle  was  still  shrieking  out,  but  Madame 
Lemaire  must  get  ready  the  supper  for  her  absinthe- 
soaked  husband  and  his  friend  the  murderer  from  Alfa. 

The  sportsmen  were  late  in  returning,  and  Madame 
Lemaire's  task  was  finished  before  they  came.  She  had 
nothing  more  to  do,  and  she  came  out  to  the  arbour  that 
looked  upon  the  road.  Here  there  was  an  old  table 
stained  with  the  lees  of  wine.  About  it  stood  three  or 
four  rickety  chairs,  Madame  Lemaire  sat  down — 
dropped  down,  rather — on  one  of  these,  laid  her  arms 
upon  the  table,  and  gazed  down  the  empty  road. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  said  to  herself.    "Mon  Dieu!" 

She  beat  one  hand  on  the  table  and  said  it  aloud. 

"Mon  Dieu!    Mon  Dieu!" 

She  stared  up  at  the  vine.  The  leaves  were  sandy,  and 
she  saw  insects  running  over  them.  She  watched  them. 
What  were  they  doing?  What  purpose  could  they  have ? 
What  purpose  could  anything  have? 

Always  the  hand  tapped,  tapped  upon  the  table. 

And  Marseilles !  It  was  still  there  by  the  sea,  crowded, 
gay  with  life.  This  was  the  time  when  the  life  began 
to  grow  turbulent.  The  cascades  were  roaring  under 
the  lifted  gardens  where  the  beasts  roamed  in  their  cages. 
The  awnings  were  out  over  the  cafes  in  that  city  of 
cafes.  She  could  almost  see  the  coloured  edges  of  stuff 
fluttering  in  the  wind  that  came  up  from  the  harbour 
and  from  the  Chateau  d'If.  There  was  a  sound  of  ham 
mering  along  the  sea.  They  were  putting  up  the  bathing 
sheds  for  the  season.  It  would  be  good  to  go  into  the 
sea.  It  would  cool  one. 

A  beetle  dropped  from  the  vine  on  to  the  table  close 


THE  NOMAD  317 

to  the  beating  hand.  Madame  Lemaire  started  violently. 
She  got  up,  and  went  to  stand  in  the  entrance  of  the 
arbour.  Marseilles  was  gone  now.  Africa  was  there. 

For  ten  years  she  had  been  looking  down  the  road. 
She  looked  down  it  once  more. 

It  was  the  wonderful  evening  hour  when  Africa  seems 
to  lift  itself  toward  the  light,  reluctant  to  be  given  to 
the  darkness.  Very  far  one  could  see,  and  with  an 
almost  supernatural  distinctness.  Yet  Madame  Lemaire 
strained  her  eyes,  as  people  do  at  dusk  when  they  strive 
to  pierce  a  veil  of  gathering  darkness. 

What  was  coming  along  the  road  ? 

Her  gaze  travelled  onwards  over  the  hard  and  bar 
ren  plain  till  it  reached  the  green  crops,  on  and  on  past 
the  tents  of  the  Spahis'  encampment,  near  which  rose  a 
trail  of  smoke  into  the  lucent  air;  farther  still,  farther 
and  farther,  until  the  whiteness  narrowed  towards  the 
mountains,  and  at  last  was  lost  to  sight. 

And  this  evening,  perhaps  because  she  longed  so  much 
for  something,  for  anything,  there  was  nothing  on  the 
road.  It  was  a  white  emptiness  under  the  setting  sun. 

Then  the  woman  felt  frantic,  and  she  beat  her  hands 
together,  and  she  cried  aloud : 

"If  the  Devil  himself  would  only  come  along  the  road 
and  ask  me  to  go  from  this  cursed  hole  of  a  place,  I'd  go 
with  him!  I'd  go!  I'd  go!" 

She  repeated  it  shrilly,  making  wild  gestures  with  her 
hands  towards  the  desert.  Her  face  was  twisted  awry. 
She  looked  just  then  like  a  desperate  hag  of  a  woman. 

But  it  was  the  girl  of  Marseilles  who  was  crying  out 
in  her.  It  was  Marie  Bretelle  who  was  demanding  the 
joys  she  had  flung  away  in  her  youth  for  the  sake  of  a 
handsome  face. 

"I'd  go!    I'd  go!" 

The  shrill  cry  went  up  to  the  setting  sun.  But  no 
one  answered,  and  nothing  darkened  the  arid  whiteness 
of  the  road  that  wound  across  the  plain  and  passed  be 
fore  the  inn-door. 


318  SNAKE-BITE 


in 

Night  had  fallen  when  the  two  sportsmen  rode  in  on 
mules,  tired  and  hungry.  Hadj  came  from  his  keef  to 
take  the  beasts,  Madame  Lemaire  from  her  kitchen  to  ask 
if  there  were  any  birds  for  her  to  cook.  Her  husband 
gave  her  a  string  of  them,  and  she  turned  away  from 
him  without  a  word,  and  went  back  into  the  house. 

There  was  nothing  odd  in  this,  but  something  in  his 
wife's  face,  seen  only  for  a  moment  in  the  darkness  of 
the  court,  had  startled  Lemaire,  and  he  looked  after  her 
as  if  he  were  inclined  to  call  her  back;  then  said  to  his 
companion,  Jacques  Bouvier: 

"Did  you  see  Marie?" 

"Yes.  She  looks  as  if  she  had  just  stumbled  over  a 
jackal,"  and  he  laughed. 

Lemaire  stood  for  a  minute  where  he  was.  Then  he 
shouted  to  Hadj : 

"Hadj!    A— Hadj!" 

The  one-eyed  keef -smoker  came. 

"Who  has  been  here  to-day?" 

"No  one.  A  few  have  passed  the  door,  but  no  one 
has  entered." 

"Good  business!"  said  Bouvier,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders. 

"Business!"  exclaimed  Lemaire,  with  an  oath.  "It's 
a  fine  business  we  do  here.  Another  ten  years,  and  we 
shan't  have  put  by  ten  sous." 

"Perhaps  that  is  why  madame  has  such  a  face  to 
night!" 

"We'll  see  at  supper.    Now  for  an  absinthe !" 

The  two  men  walked  stiffly  into  the  inn,  put  their  guns 
in  a  corner,  went  into  the  arbour  that  fronted  the  desert, 
and  sat  down  by  the  table. 

"Marie !"  bawled  Lemaire. 

He  struck  his  flabby  fist  down  upon  the  wood. 

"Marie,  the  absinthe!" 


THE  NOMAD  319 

Madame  Lemaire  heard  the  hoarse  shout  in  the 
kitchen,  and  her  face  went  awry  again. 

"I'd  go!    I'd  go!" 

She  hissed  it  under  her  breath. 

"Sacre  nom  de  Dieu!    Marie!" 

"Via!" 

"The  devil!  What  a  voice!"  said  Bouvier  in  the  ar 
bour. 

Lemaire  was  half  turned  in  his  chair.  His  hands  were 
slightly  shaking,  and  his  large  white  face,  with  its  angry 
and  distressed  eyes,  looked  startled. 

"Who  was  that?"  he  said,  moving  in  his  chair  as  if  he 
were  going  to  get  up. 

"Who?    Your  wife!" 

"No,  it  wasn't!" 

"Well,  then " 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  clink  and  a  rattle,  and 
Madame  Lemaire  came  slowly  out  from  the  inn,  carry 
ing  a  tray  with  an  absinthe  bottle,  a  bottle  of  water,  and 
two  thick  glasses  on  china  saucers  upon  it.  She  set  it 
down  between  the  two  men.  Her  husband  stared  at 
her  like  one  who  stares  suspiciously  at  a  stranger. 

"Was  that  you  who  called  out?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course !  Who  else  should  it  be  ?  Who  ever  comes 
here?" 

"Madame  is  a  bit  sick  of  El-Keif,"  said  Bouvier. 
"That's  what  is  the  matter." 

Madame  Lemaire  compressed  her  lips  tightly  and  said 
nothing. 

Her  husband  looked  more  suspicious. 

"Why  should  she  be  sick  of  it?  She's  done  very  well 
with  it  for  ten  years,"  he  said  roughly. 

Madame  Lemaire  turned  away  and  left  the  arbour. 
She  was  wearing  slippers  without  heels,  and  went  softly. 

The  two  men  sat  in  silence,  looking  at  each  other.  A 
breath  of  wind,  the  first  that  had  come  that  day,  stole 
from  the  desert  and  rustled  the  leaves  of  the  vine  above 


320  SNAKE-BITE 

their  heads.  Lemaire  stretched  out  his  trembling  hand 
to  the  absinthe  bottle. 

"For  God's  sake  let's  have  a  drink !"  he  said.  "There's 
something  about  my  wife  that's  given  my  blood  a  turn." 

"Beat  her !"  said  Bouvier,  pushing  forward  his  glass. 
"If  you  don't  beat  them  be  sure  they'll  betray  you." 

His  wife's  treachery  had  set  him  against  all  women. 
Lemaire  growled  something  inarticulate.  He  was  think 
ing  of  the  days  in  Algiers,  of  their  strange  and  often 
disgraceful  existence  there.  Bouvier  knew  nothing  of 
that. 

"Come  on !"  he  said. 

And  he  lifted  his  glass  of  absinthe  to  his  lips. 

At  supper  that  night  Lemaire  perpetually  watched  his 
wife.  She  seemed  to  be  just  as  usual.  For  years  there 
had  been  a  sort  of  sickly  weariness  upon  her  face.  It 
was  there  now.  For  years  there  had  been  a  dull  sound 
in  her  voice.  He  heard  it  to-night.  For  years  she  had 
had  a  poor  appetite.  She  ate  little  at  supper,  had  her 
habitual  manner  of  swallowing  almost  with  difficulty. 
Surely  she  was  just  as  usual. 

And  yet  she  was  not — she  was  not ! 

After  supper  the  two  men  returned  to  the  arbour  to 
smoke  and  drink,  and  Madame  Lemaire  remained  in  the 
kitchen  to  clear  away  and  wash-up. 

"Isn't  there  something  the  matter  with  my  wife?" 
asked  Lemaire,  lighting  a  thin,  black  cigar,  and  settling 
his  loose,  bulky  body  in  the  small  chair,  with  his  fat 
legs  stretched  out,  and  one  foot  crossed  over  the  other. 
"Or  is  it  that  I'm  out  of  sorts  to-night  ?  It  seems  to  me 
as  if  she  were  strange." 

Bouvier  was  a  small,  pinched  man,  with  a  narrow  face, 
evenly  red  in  colour,  large  ears  that  stood  out  from  his 
closely  shaven  head,  and  hot-looking,  prominent  brown 
eyes. 

"Perhaps  she's  taken  with  some  Arab,"  he  said. 

"P'f !  She's  dropped  all  that  nonsense.  The  devil! 
A  woman  of  forty's  an  old  woman  in  Africa." 


THE  NOMAD 

Bouvier  spat. 

"Isn't  she?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me  about  women!  Young  or  old, 
they're  always  calling  the  Devil  to  their  elbow." 

"What  for?" 

"To  put  them  up  to  wickedness.  Perhaps  your  wife's 
been  calling  him  to-night.  You  look  behind  her  pres 
ently,  and  you  may  catch  a  sight  of  him.  He's  always 
about  where  women  are." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Lemaire  laughed  mirthlessly. 

"D'you  think  he'd  show  himself  to  me?" 

He  emptied  his  glass.  Bouvier  suddenly  looked  ter 
rible — looked  like  the  man  who  had  put  three  bullets  into 
his  sleeping  guest. 

"How  did  I  know?"  he  said. 

He  leaned  across  the  table  towards  Lemaire. 

"How  did  I  know  ?"  he  repeated  in  a  low  voice. 

"What — when  your  wife " 

"Yes.  They  didn't  let  me  see  anything.  They  were 
too  sharp.  No;  it  was  one  night  I  saw  him  with  his 
mouth  at  her  ear,  coming  in  behind  her  through  the  door 
like  a  shadow.  There!" 

He  sat  back  with  his  hands  on  his  knees.  Lemaire 
stared  at  him  again. 

Again  the  wind  rustled  furtively  through  the  diseased 
vine-leaves  of  the  arbour. 

"It  was  then  that  I  got  out  my  revolver  and  charged 
it,"  continued  Bouvier,  in  a  less  mysterious  voice,  as  of 
one  returned  to  practical  life.  "For  I  knew  she'd  been 
up  to  some  villainy.  Pass  the  bottle !"  .  .  . 

"Pass  the  bottle!  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  pass  the  bot 
tle?" 

"Pardon!" 

Lemaire  pushed  the  bottle  over  to  his  friend. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  to-night?" 

"Nothing.     You  mean  to  say  ...  why  d'you  talk 


SNAKE-BITE 

such  nonsense?  D'you  think  I'm  a  fool  to  be  taken  in 
by  rubbish  like  that?" 

"Well,  then,  why  did  you  sit  just  as  if  you'd  seen 
him?" 

"I'm  a  bit  tired  to-night;  that's  what  it  is.  We  went 
a  long  way.  The  wine'll  pull  me  together." 

He  poured  out  another  glass. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,"  he  continued,  "you  believe 
in  the  Devil?" 

"Don't  you?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not!  Why  should  I?  Nobody  does — men, 
I  mean.  That  sort  of  thing  is  all  very  well  for  women." 

Bouvier  said  nothing,  but  sat  with  his  arms  on  the 
table,  staring  out  towards  the  desert.  He  looked  at  the 
empty  road  just  in  front  of  them,  let  his  eyes  travel 
along  until  it  disappeared  into  the  night. 

"I  say,  that  sort  of  thing  is  all  very  well  for  women," 
repeated  Lemaire. 

"I  hear  you." 

"But  I  want  to  know  whether  you  don't  think  the 


same." 


"As  you?" 

"Yes;  to  be  sure." 

"I  might  have  done  once." 

"But  you  don't  now?" 

"There's  a  devil  in  the  desert;  that's  certain." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  tell  you  he  came  out  of  the  desert  to  turn 
my  wife  wrong." 

"Then  you  weren't  joking?" 

"Not  I.  It's  as  true  as  that  I  went  and  charged  my 
revolver,  because  I  saw  what  I  told  you.  Here's  madame 
coming  out  to  join  us." 

Lemaire  shifted  heavily  and  abruptly  in  his  chair. 

"Hallo!"  he  said,  in  a  brutal  tone  of  voice.  "What's 
up  with  you  to-night  ?" 


THE  NOMAD  323 

As  he  spoke  he  stared  hard  at  his  wife's  shoulder,  just 
by  her  ear. 

"Nothing.  What  are  you  looking  at?  There 
isn't " 

She  put  up  her  hand  quickly  to  her  shoulder  and  felt 
over  her  dress. 

"Ugh!"  She  shook  herself.  "I  thought  you'd  seen  a 
scorpion  on  me." 

Bouvier,  whose  red  face  seemed  to  be  deepening  in 
colour  under  the  influence  of  the  red  Algerian  wine, 
burst  out  laughing. 

"It  wasn't  a  scorpion  he  was  looking  for,"  he  ex 
claimed.  His  thin  body  shook  with  mirth  till  his  chair 
creaked  under  him. 

"It  wasn't  a  scorpion,"  he  repeated. 

"What  was  it,  then?"  said  Madame  Lemaire. 

She  looked  from  one  man  to  the  other — from  the  one 
who  was  strange  in  his  laughter,  to  the  other  who  was 
even  stranger  in  his  gravity. 

"What  have  you  been  saying  about  me?"  she  said, 
with  a  flare-up  of  suspicion. 

"Well,"  said  Bouvier,  recovering  himself  a  little,  "if 
you  must  know,  we  were  talking  about  the  Devil." 

The  woman  started  and  gave  the  table  a  shake.  Some 
of  her  husband's  wine  was  spilled  over  it. 

"The  Devil  take  you !"  he  bawled,  with  sudden  fury. 

"I  only  wish  he  would!" 

The  two  men  jumped  back  as  if  a  viper  of  the  sands 
had  suddenly  reared  up  its  thin  head  between  them. 

"I  only  wish  he  would !" 

It  was  Marie  Bretelle  who  had  spoken,  the  girl  of 
Marseilles,  who  still  lived  in  the  body  of  Marie  Lemaire. 
But  it  was  Marie  Lemaire  from  whom  the  two  men 
shrank  away — Marie  Lemaire  changed,  startling,  terrible, 
her  haggard  face  furious  with  expression,  her  thin  hands 
clutching  at  the  edge  of  the  table,  from  which  the  wine- 
bottle  had  fallen,  to  be  smashed  at  their  feet. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  dead  silence  succeeding 


SNAKE-BITE 

that  second  shrill  cry.  Then  Lemaire  scrambled  up  heav 
ily  from  his  chair. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  stammered.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

And  then  she  told  him,  like  a  fury,  and  with  the  words 
which  had  surely  been  accumulating  in  her  mind,  like 
water  behind  a  dam,  for  ten  years.  She  told  him  what 
she  had  wanted,  and  what  she  had  had.  And  when  at 
last  she  had  finished  telling  him,  she  stood  for  a  minute, 
making  mouths  at  him  in  silence,  as  if  she  still  had  some 
thing  to  say,  some  final  word  of  summing  up. 

"Stop  that!" 

It  was  Lemaire  who  spoke;  and  as  he  spoke  he  thrust 
out  one  of  his  white,  shaking  hands  to  cover  that  night 
mare  mouth.  But  she  beat  his  hand  down,  and  screamed, 
with  the  gesture. 

"And  if  the  Devil  himself  would  come  along  the  road 
to  fetch  me  from  this  cursed  place,  I'd  go  with  him! 
D'you  hear  ?  I'd  go  with  him !  I'd  go  with  him !" 

IV 

When  the  scream  died  away,  one-eyed  Hadj  was  stand 
ing  at  the  entrance  to  the  arbour.  Madame  Lemaire  felt 
that  he  was  there,  turned  round,  and  saw  him. 

"I'd  go  with  him  if  he  was  an  Arab,"  she  said,  but 
almost  muttering  now,  for  her  voice  had  suddenly  failed 
her,  though  her  passion  was  still  red-hot.  "Even  the 
Arabs — they're  better  than  you,  than  absinthe-soaked, 
do-nothing  Roumis,  who  sit  and  drink,  drink " 

Her  voice  cracked,  went  into  a  whisper,  disappeared. 
She  thrust  out  her  hand,  swept  the  glasses  off  the  table 
to  follow  the  bottle,  turned,  and  went  out  of  the  arbour 
softly  on  her  slippered  feet. 

And  one-eyed  Hadj  stood  there  laughing,  for  he  un 
derstood  French  very  well,  although  he  was  half -mad 
with  keef. 

"She'd  go  with  an  Arab!"  he  repeated.     "She'd  go 


THE  NOMAD  325 

with  an  Arab !"  And  then  he  saw  his  master's  face,  and 
slipped  back  to  his  keef-pipe. 

The  two  Frenchmen  sat  staring  at  one  another  across 
the  empty  table  under  the  shivering  vine-leaves,  which, 
were  now  stirred  continually  by  the  wind  of  night  Le- 
maire's  large  face  had  gone  a  dusky  grey.  About  his 
eyes  there  was  a  tinge  of  something  that  was  almost  lead 
colour.  His  loose  mouth  had  dropped,  and  the  lower  lip 
disclosed  his  decayed  teeth.  His  hands,  laid  upon  the 
table  as  if  for  support,  shook  and  jumped,  were  never 
still  even  for  a  second. 

Bouvier  was  almost  purple.  Veins  stood  out  about 
his  forehead.  The  blood  had  gone  to  his  ears  and  to  his 
eyes.  Now  he  leaned  across  to  Lemaire. 

"Beat  her !"  he  said.  "Beat  her  for  that !  Hadj  heard 
her.  If  you  don't  beat  her,  the  Arabs " 

But  before  he  had  finished  the  sentence  Lemaire  had 
got  up,  with  a  wild  gesture  of  his  shaking  hand,  and 
gone  unsteadily  into  the  house. 

That  night  Madame  Lemaire  suffered  at  the  hands  of 
her  husband,  while  Bouvier  and  Hadj  listened  in  the 
darkness  of  the  court. 


It  was  drawing  towards  evening  on  the  following  day, 
and  Madame  Lemaire  was  quite  alone  in  the  inn.  Hadj 
had  gone  to  the  village  for  some  more  keef,  and  Le 
maire  and  Bouvier  had  set  out  together  in  the  morning 
for  Batna. 

So  she  was  quite  alone.  Her  face  was  bruised  and  dis 
coloured  near  the  right  eye.  Her  head  ached.  She  felt 
immensely  listless.  To-day  there  was  no  activity  in  her 
misery.  It  seemed  a  slow-witted,  lethargic  thing,  un 
deserving  even  of  respect 

There  were  no  customers.  There  was  nothing  to  do, 
absolutely  nothing.  She  went  heavily  into  the  arbour, 
and  sank  down  upon  a  chair.  At  first  she  sat  upright 
But  presently  she  spread  her  arms  out  upon  the  table, 


326  SNAKE-BITE 

and  laid  her  discoloured  face  on  them,  and  remained  so 
for  a  long  time. 

Any  traveller,  passing  by  on  the  road  from  the  desert, 
would  have  thought  that  she  was  asleep.  But  she  was 
not  asleep.  Nor  had  she  slept  all  night.  It  is  not  easy 
to  sleep  after  such  punishment  as  she  had  received. 

And  no  traveller  passed  by. 

The  flies,  finding  that  the  woman  kept  quite  still,  set 
tled  upon  her  face,  her  hair,  her  hands,  cleaned  them 
selves,  stretched  their  legs  and  wings,  went  to  and  fro 
busily  upon  her.  She  never  moved  to  drive  them  away. 

She  was  not  thinking  just  then.  She  was  only  feeling 
— feeling  how  she  was  alone,  feeling  that  this  enormous 
sun-dried  land  was  about  her,  stretching  away  to  right 
and  to  left  of  her,  behind  her  and  before,  feeling  that 
in  all  this  enormous,  sun-dried  land  there  was  nobody 
who  wanted  her,  nobody  thinking  of  her,  nobody  coming 
towards  her  to  take  her  away  into  a  different  life,  into 
a  life  that  she  could  bear. 

All  this  she  was  dully  feeling. 

Perfectly  still  were  the  diseased  vine-leaves  above  her 
head,  motionless  as  she  was.  On  them  the  insects  went 
to  and  fro,  actively  leading  their  mysterious  lives,  as 
the  flies  went  to  and  fro  on  her. 

For  a  long  time  she  remained  thus.  All  the  white 
road  was  empty  before  her  as  far  as  eye  could  see.  No 
trail  of  smoke  went  up  by  the  growing  crops  beside  the 
distant  tents  of  the  Spahis.  It  seemed  as  if  man  had 
abandoned  Africa,  leaving  only  one  of  God's  creatures 
there,  this  woman  who  leaned  across  the  discoloured 
table  with  her  bruised  face  hidden  on  her  arms. 

The  hour  before  sunset  approached,  the  miraculous 
hour  of  the  day,  when  Africa  seems  to  lift  itself  towards 
the  light  that  will  soon  desert  it,  as  if  it  could  not  bear 
to  let  the  glory  go,  as  if  it  would  not  consent  to  be  hidden 
in  the  night.  Upon  the  salt  mountain  the  crystals  glit 
tered. 

The  details  of  the  land  began  to  live  as  they  had  not 


THE  NOMAD  327 

lived  all  day.  The  wonderful  clearness  came,  in  which 
all  things  seem  filled  with  a  supernatural  meaning.  And, 
even  in  the  dulness  of  her  misery,  habit  took  hold  of 
Madame  Lemaire. 

She  lifted  her  head  from  her  arms,  and  she  stared 
down  the  long  white  road.  Her  gaze  travelled.  It 
started  from  the  patch  of  glaring  white  before  the  ar 
bour,  and  it  went  away  like  one  who  goes  to  a  tryst. 
It  went  down  the  road,  and  on,  and  on.  It  reached  the 
green  of  the  crops.  It  passed  the  Spahis'  tents.  It  moved 
towards  the  distant  mountains  that  hid  the  plains  and 
the  palms  of  Biskra. 

The  flies  buzzed  into  the  air. 

Madame  Lemaire  had  got  up  from  her  seat.  With  her 
hands  laid  flat  upon  the  table  she  stared  at  the  thread 
of  white  that  was  the  limit  of  her  vision.  Then  she  lifted 
her  hands  and  curved  them,  and  put  them  above  her  eyes 
to  form  a  shade.  And  then  she  moved  and  came  out  to 
the  entrance  of  the  arbour. 

She  had  seen  a  black  speck  upon  the  road. 

There  was  dust  around  it.  As  so  often  before  she 
asked  herself  the  question :  "Who  is  it  coming  towards 
the  inn  from  the  desert?"  But  to-day  she  asked  herself 
the  question  as  she  had  never  asked  it  before,  with  a  sort 
of  violence,  with  a  passionate  eagerness,  with  a  leaping 
expectation.  And  she  stepped  right  out  into  the  road, 
as  if  she  would  go  and  meet  the  traveller,  would  hasten 
with  stretched-out  hands  as  to  some  welcome  friend. 

The  sun  dropped  its  burning  rays  upon  her  hair,  and 
she  realised  her  folly,  and  took  her  hands  from  her  eyes 
and  laughed  to  herself.  Then  she  went  back  to  the  ar 
bour  and  stood  by  the  table  waiting.  Slowly — very 
slowly  it  seemed  to  Madame  Lemaire — the  black  speck 
grew  larger  on  the  white.  But  there  was  very  much 
dust  to-day,  and  always  the  misty  cloud  was  round  it, 
stirred  up  by — was  it  a  camel's  padding  feet,  or  the  hoofs 

of  a  horse,  or ?  She  could  not  tell  yet,  but  soon  she 

would  be  able  to  tell. 


328  SNAKE-BITE 

Now  it  was  approaching  the  watered  land,  was  not 
far  from  the  Spahis'  tents.  And  a  great  fear  came  upon 
her  that  it  might  turn  aside  to  them,  that  it  might  be  per 
haps  a  Spahi  riding  home  from  his  patrol  of  the  desert. 
She  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  to  be  alone  any  longer ; 
that  if  she  could  not  see  and  speak  to  someone  before 
sunset  she  must  go  mad. 

The  traveller  passed  before  the  Spahis'  camp  without 
turning  aside;  and  now  the  dust  was  less,  and  Madame 
Lemaire  could  see  that  it  was  a  Nomad  mounted  on  a 
camel. 

With  a  smothered  exclamation  she  hurried  into  the 
inn.  A  sudden  resolve  possessed  her.  She  would  pre 
pare  a  couscous.  And  then,  if  the  Nomad  desired  to  pass 
on  without  entering  the  inn,  she  would  detain  him. 

She  would  offer  him  a  couscous  for  nothing,  only  she 
must  have  company.  Whoever  the  stranger  was,  how 
ever  poor,  however  filthy,  ragged,  hideous,  or  even  ter 
rible,  he  must  stay  a  while  at  the  inn,  distract  her  thoughts 
for  an  instant. 

Without  that  she  would  go  mad. 

Quickly  she  began  her  preparations.  There  was  time. 
He  could  not  be  here  for  twenty  minutes  yet,  and  the 
meal  for  a  couscous  was  all  ready.  She  had  only  to • 

She  moved  frantically  about  the  kitchen. 

Twenty  minutes  later  she  heard  the  peevish  roar  of 
a  camel  from  the  road,  and  ran  out  to  meet  the  Nomad, 
carrying  the  couscous.  As  she  came  into  the  arbour 
she  noticed  that  it  was  already  dark  outside. 

The  night  had  fallen  suddenly. 


VI 

That  night,  as  Lemaire  and  Bouvier  were  nearing  the 
inn,  riding  slowly  upon  their  mules,  they  heard  before 
them  in  the  darkness  the  angry  snarling  of  a  camel. 

Almost  immediately  it  died  away. 


THE  NOMAD  329 

"Madame  has  company,"  said  Bouvier.  "There's  a 
customer  at  the  Retour  du  Desert." 

"Some  damned  Arab!"  said  Lemaire.  "Come  for  a 
coffee  or  a  couscous.  Much  good  that'll  do  us !" 

They  rode  on  in  silence.  When  they  reached  the  inn, 
the  road  before  it  was  empty. 

"Ma  foi,"  said  Bouvier.  "Nobody  here !  The  camel 
was  getting  up,  then,  and  Madame  is  alone  again." 

"Marie!"  called  Lemaire.    "Marie!    The  absinthe!" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Marie!  Nom  d'un  Men!  Marie!  The  absinthe! 
Marie!" 

He  let  his  heavy  body  down  from  the  mule. 

"Where  the  devil  is  she?    Marie!    Marie!" 

He  went  into  the  arbour,  stumbled  over  something, 
and  uttered  a  curse. 

In  reply  to  it  there  was  a  shrill  and  prolonged  howl 
from  the  court. 

'What  is  it?  What's  the  dog  up  to?"  said  Bouvier, 
whipping  out  his  revolver  and  following  Lemaire.  "The 
table  knocked  over!  What's  up?  D'you  think  there's 
anything  wrong?" 

The  Kabyle  dog  howled  again,  slunk  into  the  arbour 
from  the  court,  and  pressed  itself  against  Lemaire's  legs. 
He  gave  it  a  kick  in  the  ribs  that  sent  it  yelping  into 
the  night. 

"Marie!    Marie!" 

There  was  the  anger  of  alarm  in  his  voice  now;  but 
no  one  answered  his  call. 

Walking  furtively,  the  two  men  passed  through  the 
doorway  into  the  kitchen.  Lemaire  struck  a  match,  lit 
a  candle,  took  it  in  his  hand,  and  they  searched  the  inn, 
and  the  court,  then  returned  to  the  arbour.  In  the  ar 
bour,  close  to  the  overturned  table,  they  found  a  broken 
bowl,  with  a  couscous  scattered  over  the  earth  beside  it. 
Several  vine-leaves  were  trodden  into  the  ground  near  by. 

"Someone's  been  here,"  said  Lemaire,  staring  at  Bou 
vier  in  the  candlelight,  which  flickered  in  his  angry  and 


330  SNAKE-BITE 

distressed  eyes.  "Someone's  been.  She  was  bringing 
him  a  couscous.  See  here!" 

He  pointed  with  his  foot. 

Bouvier  laughed  uneasily. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said — "perhaps  it  was  the  Devil  come 
for  her.  You  remember!  She  said  last  night,  if  he 
came,  she'd  go  with  him." 

The  candle  dropped  from  Lemaire's  shaking  hand. 

"Damn  you !  Why  d'you  talk  like  that?"  he  exclaimed 
furiously.  "She  must  be  somewhere  about.  Let's  have 
an  absinthe.  Perhaps  she's  gone  to  the  village." 

They  had  an  absinthe,  and  searched  once  more. 

Presently  Hadj,  who  was  half  mad  with  keef,  joined 
them.  The  rumour  of  what  was  going  forward  got  about 
in  the  village ;  and  other  Arabs  glided  noiselessly  through 
the  night  to  share  in  the  absinthe  and  the  quest,  for  that 

night  Lemaire  forgot  to  lock  up  the  bottle. 

****** 

Bu  the  hostess  of  the  inn  at  El-Keif  has  not  been  seen 
again. 


SIX:  THE  TWO  FEARS 


MRS.  ALLINGTON  was  afraid.  She  had  always  been 
what  is  called  a  nervous  sort  of  woman.  Constitutionally 
delicate,  thin,  small  and  pale,  with  large,  anxious,  brown 
eyes,  her  whole  appearance  suggested  sensitiveness  and 
an  almost  shrinking  timidity.  A  widow  now,  she  had 
been  married  young  to  a  man  who  did  everything  "in  his 
own  way." 

He  had  loved  her,  but  in  his  own  way.  He  had  been 
kind  to  her,  but  in  his  own  way.  He  had  eaten  and 
drunk,  taken  his  pleasures  and  undergone  his  misfor 
tunes,  worshipped  himself  and  paid  homage  to  his 
Creator  in  his  own  way.  And  some  had  thought  that  his 
way  was  a  trying  one.  Most  of  his  friends  and  ac 
quaintances  had  called  him  at  one  time  or  another  a  try 
ing  man.  Several  had  gone  so  far  as  to  say  of  him  that 
he  had  a  way  with  him  that  would  have  tried  a  saint. 

Mrs.  Allington  may,  or  may  not,  have  been  a  saint; 
anyhow,  she  never  said,  and  never  showed,  that  her  hus 
band  tried  her.  She  fell  in  with  all  his  wishes  while  he 
was  alive,  and  appeared  to  mourn  him  with  deep  sin 
cerity  when  he  was  dead.  She  had  looked  very  anxious 
while  he  was  with  her,  largely  presiding  over  her  life; 
she  continued  to  look  very  anxious  after  he  was — as  Miss 
Allington,  her  knitting,  charitable  sister-in-law,  put  it — 
"gathered  in." 

It  seemed  as  if  she  couldn't  look  anything  else. 

A  fixed  expression  may  with  time  become  almost  as 


332  SNAKE-BITE 

deceptive  as  a  mask.  If  a  woman  always  looks  anxious, 
nobody  bothers  about  her  anxieties;  perhaps,  indeed, 
nobody  believes  in  them.  By  displaying  she  may  actu 
ally  conceal. 

So  it  was  with  Mrs.  Allington. 

When  the  European  war  broke  out  she  was  living  in  a 
small  house  in  Kensington  with  her  only  child,  Ivo,  who 
was  just  twenty-five,  and  wrho  was  doing  well  as  a 
journalist. 

Mrs.  Allington  had  just  enough  for  her  necessities; 
but  for  her  comforts,  for  those  innumerable  small  things 
which  draw  some  of  the  austere  harshness  out  of  life, 
which  paint  in  a  little  warm  colour  on  the  grey,  she  was 
dependent  upon  Ivo. 

But  for  Ivo  she  must  have  lived  in  a  cheap  boarding- 
house  instead  of  in  that  cherished  possession — 247, 
Lenorva  Road,  West  Kensington.  But  for  Ivo  really 
nice  dresses — not  many,  and  never  expensive,  but  in  a 
modest  way  satisfactory — would  have  been  "beyond  her." 
But  for  Ivo  she  could  not  have  indulged  in  occasional 
visits  to  the  theatre  and  occasional  pleasant  afternoons 
at  the  Ballad  Concerts,  followed  by  tea  in  Bond  Street. 
Ivo  was  clever  and  had  the  artistic  temperament — which 
implies  startling  irritabilities  and  occasional  exhibitions 
of  nerves  upon  the  tight-rope — but  he  was  very  good  to 
his  mother  in  his  own  way,  which  was  not  inherited 
from  his  father. 

And  now  Mrs.  Allington  was  full  of  fear  connected 
with  Ivo.  Two  fears,  in  fact,  possessed  her  soul.  She 
was  afraid  that  Ivo  would  enlist  in  the  army  Kitchener 
had  begun  to  form  for  active  service  against  the  Huns. 
That  was  fear  number  one.  And  she  was  afraid  that  he 
would  not  enlist.  And  that  was  fear  number  two. 

She  felt  that  she  simply  couldn't  bear  it  if  Ivo  enlisted, 
and  she  knew  that  she  couldn't  endure  it  if  he  didn't.  As 
she  said  absolutely  nothing  about  either  of  her  two  fears, 
and  merely  went  on  looking  extremely  anxious,  nobody 
had  the  least  suspicion  that  she  was  not  "just  as  usual." 


THE  TWO  FEARS  333 

Even  Ivo,  who  was  supposed  to  be  so  intuitive,  and  to 
whom  human  nature  was  said  to  be  an  open  book,  even 
Ivo  had  no  notion  that  his  mother  was  in  any  way  wor 
ried.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  thought  he  was  doing  all 
the  worrying  that  was  being  done  at  247,  Lenorva  Road. 

When  the  war  broke  out  he  had  had  tremendous  vi 
sions  of  "finding  himself"  as  the  ideal  war  correspondent. 
But  Kitchener — everything  was  put  upon  Kitchener  by 
everybody — had  other  views.  Or  so  it  was  rumoured. 
There  were  not  to  be  any  war  correspondents.  And  so 
for  a  time  Ivo  went  on  in  the  old  way  of  a  successful 
young  free-lance.  He  wrote  about  war  in  West  Kensing 
ton,  and  khaki  began  to  appear  in  the  streets.  It  became 
more  and  more  mysteriously  prevalent.  One  saw  it  in 
the  Tube ;  one  jostled  against  it  in  the  Underground ;  one 
sat  beside  it  upon  the  tops  of  'buses;  one  met  it  unex 
pectedly  in  great  abundance  on  coming  round  corners ;  it 
tramped  about  the  parks,  and  did  remarkable  manoeuvres 
in  sunlit  public  gardens,  and  sang  along  the  Mall,  and 
whistled  its  way  along  the  Embankment  beside  the  old 
brown  river. 

And  Ivo  began  to  worry. 

He  was  a  clever  boy  and  a  good  sort  of  boy,  but  he 
was  of  the  intellectual  rather  than  of  the  muscular  type. 
He  was  decidedly  an  individualist,  and,  though  he  was 
a  journalist,  he  was  much  concerned  about  art.  He  knew 
all  the  ways  of  the  Cubists,  the  Futurists,  the  Vorticists; 
he  was  very  keen  on  the  Russian  ballet;  he  was  deeply 
interested  in  what  Mr.  George  Moore  was  going  to  do 
next,  and  swore  almost  passionately  by  Granville  Barker. 

In  music  his  taste  ran  rather  to  Scriabine  than  to  the 
composer  of  "Tipperary." 

And  so  he  worried  quite  a  good  deal. 

And  in  Mrs.  Allington  fear  number  two  began  to 
grow  and  to  attain  conspicuous  proportions. 

How  perfectly  terrible  it  would  be  if  Ivo  didn't  en 
list! 

The  sons  of  neighbours  and  even  of  friends  began  to 


334  SNAKE-BITE 

change  colour;  from  the  blue  serge,  or  the  dull  green  of 
Harris  tweed,  or  the  black  of  that  cloth  which  is  made 
up  into  "morning  coats,"  they  faded — or  was  it  bloomed  ? 
— into  khaki. 

And  the  young  men  who  hadn't  changed  colour  became 
louder  in  their  assertion  that  it  would  be  a  short  war, 
"all  over  long  before  these  fellows  in  a  hurry  get  their 
rifles." 

Mrs.  Allington  lay  awake  night  after  night,  and  fear 
number  two  crouched  beside  her  pillow. 

What  would  she  do  if  Ivo  didn't  enlist? 


ii 

She  and  her  son  did  not  talk  very  much  about  the  war. 
Ivo  honestly  thought  that  she  "didn't  take  much  stock 
of  it,"  and  she  thought — well,  who  knows  what  little 
women  think  about  the  great  things,  and  the  men  who 
are  in  them  ?  But  she  noticed  the  khaki.  She  noticed  it 
so  much  that  she  saw  the  world  clad  in  it.  For  her  there 
were  no  more  trousers,  there  were  only  puttees. 

One  day,  when  fear  number  two  impended  over  her 
like  a  Colossus,  Ivo  said  to  her  in  a  very  casual  way : 

"I  suppose  you  could  get  along  on  a  good  deal  less 
than  you  do,  mother — at  a  pinch,  eh?" 

Fear  number  two  shrivelled  and  was  gone,  and  fear 
number  one  lifted  itself  suddenly  to  the  height  of  Mrs. 
Allington's  heart;  but  she  went  on  looking  anxious,  and 
said  in  her  usual  voice — a  very  light  and  rather  faded 
soprano : 

"Yes,  dear,  I  suppose  I  could,  at  a  pinch." 

"That's  what  I  thought.  It's  generally  possible  to 
knock  off  a  few  things.  Most  of  us  wade  through  super 
fluities." 

"Dear?" 

"My  way  of  saying  we  complicate  our  needs." 

"Oh,  I  see." 

But  he  felt  perfectly  certain  she  didn't.    Ivo  was  apt 


THE  TWO  FEARS  335 

to  think  that  his  mother  didn't  see  things.  He  loved 
her  more  than  he  knew  and  more  than  she  knew,  but 
he  didn't  consider  her  at  all  clever.  You  see,  he  was 
clever  himself,  and  that  fact  shut  certain  doors  against 
him. 

During  the  next  few  days  Mrs.  Allington  was  never 
alone.  Always  day  and  night  fear  number  one  was 
with  her. 

How  terrible,  how  almost  unbearable  it  would  be  if 
Ivo  were  to  enlist !  She  looked  very  anxious  and  exactly 
as  usual. 

Ivo,  meanwhile,  was  going  through  a  mental  struggle 
which  actually  made  him  lose  weight.  He  wanted  to 
enlist  and  he  hated  the  idea  of  enlisting;  he  longed  to  be 
a  patriot  and  to  prove  his  patriotism,  and  he  loathed  the 
thought  of  giving  up  his  career,  and  still  more  the 
thought  of  being  a  private  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of 
privates,  of  having  to  live  always,  day  and  night,  in 
public,  hopelessly  and  everlastingly  mixed  up  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  with  whom  probably  he 
would  not  have  an  "idea  in  common." 

At  moments  he  longed  to  be  sixteen,  at  other  mo 
ments  he  pined  to  be  forty-one,  and  look  it.  He  thought 
of  Mr.  Roger  Fry  and  the  Post-Impressionists,  of  Mr. 
George  Moore  and  "The  Apostle/'  of  the  Russian  ballet 
and  "Thamar,"  of  the  strange  and  realistic  novel  he 
meant  to  write,  the  novel  which  would  take  him  out  of 
journalism. 

He  also  thought  of  his  mother. 

Had  he  the  "right"  to  sacrifice  his  mother  on  the  altar 
of  his  patriotism?  He  was  a  free  lance  in  journalism. 
No  one  would  continue  a  salary  to  him  if  he  joined  the 
colours.  It  would  mean  pinching  by  his  mother ;  it  might 
even  mean  the  giving  up  of  247,  Lenorva  Road.  Could 
he,  ought  he  to  require  this  of  his  mother  ?  It  would  be 
beastly  sleeping  in  a  tent  in  the  damp — perhaps  on  Salis 
bury  Plain — with  a  hugger-mugger  of  fellows  who  had 
never  even  heard  of  half  the  things  which  meant  so  much 


336  SNAKE-BITE 

to  him.  Surely  an  only  son  oughtn't  to  do  that  when 
swarms  of  brothers  were  showing  their  sleek  heads  and 
fancy  socks  all  over  the  country  without  a  thought  of 
joining  the  Army. 

But  the  khaki — the  khaki !  Everywhere  it  met  him  like 
a  summons ;  and  at  last  he  said  to  his  mother  abruptly : 

"They  seem  to  want  a  lot  of  men  for  this  war,  mother 
—eh?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Allington,  in  the  faded  so 
prano. 

"Kitchener  seems  very  keen  on  increasing  the  num 
bers." 

"Does  he?" 

"Well,  you  see  the  appeals  on  all  the  walls.  That  can 
only  mean  one  thing." 

He  spoke  rather  irritably. 

"I  don't  look  at  the  walls  very  much,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Allington  vaguely. 

Ivo  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  got  up,  went  to  the 
window  of  the  little  sitting-room,  and  looked  out  upon 
Lenorva  Road,  that  stretching  paradise  of  stucco.  His 
lips  were  pursed  and  his  brown  eyes  stared.  They  saw 
a  black  cat,  which  moved  between  the  expressionless 
houses  like  a  creature  whose  nature  belonged  to  the 
jungle. 

"And  my  nature?"  he  thought.  "Does  it  belong  to 
Lenorva  Road  or  to  England?" 

He  turned  round. 

"Would  you  advise  me  to  join,  mother?"  he  asked. 

Then,  on  either  side  of  her  stood  the  two  fears,  tall, 
stiff,  forbidding,  like  sentinels  with  fixed  bayonets.  She 
waited  a  moment,  not  looking  at  them ;  then  she  said : 

"Well,  dear,  as  you  say,  they  seem  to  want  a  lot  of 
men  for  this  war.  And  if  Lord  Kitchener  is  really  very 
keen  on  increasing  the  numbers,  perhaps " 

But  at  this  point  the  faded  soprano  faded  quite 
away. 


THE  TWO  FEARS  337 

"I'll  join,  mother.  It  may  mean  leaving  Lenorva 
Road." 

" Whatever  it  means "  said  Mrs.  Allington. 

And  there  she  stopped,  perhaps  because  of  surprise. 
For  a  strange  thing  had  happened — the  two  sentinels 
with  the  fixed  bayonets  had  vanished. 

She  never  saw  them  again. 

****** 

Ivo  joined — never  mind  what  regiment.  Presently 
he  fell  at  the  Dardanelles. 

His  mother  received  the  telegram  announcing  his  death 
in  a  cheap  boarding-house  where  she  is  living  now  in 
Rova  Crescent,  Shepherd's  Bush. 

I  saw  her  walking  alone  down  the  road  not  very  long 
ago.  She  was  dressed  in  a  very  ordinary  black  gown, 
not  such  a  good  gown  as  she  used  to  wear  in  the  days 
when  she  lived  at  No.  247.  But  what  struck  me  was  her 
expression. 

She  no  longer  looked  anxious.  If  it  hadn't  been  Mrs. 
Allington  I  should  have  thought  she  looked  proud,  proud 
in  a  beautiful  way. 

As  I  took  off  my  hat  to  her  I  thought : 

"So  the  widow  still  gives  her  mite.'* 


NRLF 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


JAN  4    77  •* 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


PR6015.I4S63 


3  2106  00198  9125 


